


Here and Now

by IridulcentDays (BiverbalBuncombe)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:56:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiverbalBuncombe/pseuds/IridulcentDays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>America begins to notice the toll of nightmares for Russia, and devises a strategy to help. Enlisting the aid of magic is never good when dreams and reality can merge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted under pseudonym Chris-Remmey, and Quoth-the-Pigeon.

  
_Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?_

-John Lennon

 

America had never really given much thought to why Russia was always up before him until Lithuania had pointed it out to him. He had assumed it was simply the other nation’s quirk: early to bed and early to rise and all that. But now as he slowly woke up and studied the other nation’s pensive look, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was true.

Weak gray light seeped into the room, cold with the breaking morning. Birds chattered in the distance, their calls muted by the shut window. America didn’t move, watching Russia carefully. The other nation had yet to notice that America was awake, still looking out the window to where the sky began to slowly slide from the dark hues of midnight to the pale yellow of breaking day. His cheeks, nose, and eyes were glazed by the weak grey light, making look that more grave in his silent and private thoughts.

America finally shifted to glance at the glowing alarm clock and blinked tiredly at the soft green 4:30 lighting up his side of the bed. Outside of the New England home, a soft gust of wind made the trees shiver and wave to a slumbering dark sky. A hand swept over his shoulder and Alfred glanced to his left as a calloused thumb began to slowly encircle his bare shoulder gently and soothingly.

“You should go back to sleep,” Russia murmured gently, as if not to disturb the peace of the morning.

“ ‘M not tired,” America sighed into Russia’s arm, curling against him. Russia hummed in reply and moved to running his hand down America’s arm reassuringly, trying to lull him back to sleep. His eyes finally flickered away from the window to glance down at America who was resting his head against his clothed chest. America placed a small kiss against the worn blue nightshirt he was wearing, too tired to reach up and kiss Russia on the lips. “But you should go back to sleep.”

“I am not tired either.” Russia turned to run his finger through America’s golden hair and then looked back out the window. America watched him carefully, biting at his cheek as he noticed how dark and flat his eyes were, how troubled he looked.

“Why’re you up anyway? It’s too early,” America groaned and shuffled further against Russia’s side and under the sheets. He draped his arm over Russia’s stomach.

“Time zones,” The older nation replied, looking to the darker side of the room and paused in stroking America’s arm. After a minute, America glanced up at him and nudged his arm to which Russia turned back and gave a small smile.

“You’ve already been here for a week. How can you still be messed up on time zones?”

Russia glanced down to him blankly and leaned down to kiss his lips. America smiled sleepily and returned the gesture, enjoying the warmth of the other’s body over him. “Are you still not tired?” Russia murmured into his ear, kissing his jaw gently.

“Nope. Not at all.” America grinned and kissed Russia’s forearm.

“Good,” Russia hummed against America’s neck and placed one hand on the other’s waist.

— — —

“I’m starting to think Lithuania was right.”

England glanced up from his paperwork, green eyes dull from the litany of signing and reading the dry reports. America sat across from him, feet propped up on the desk and signing his initials on the paper in his lap. “Get your feet down,” England said and looked back to the report on the hotel desk. “And what was Lithuania right about?”

“That Russia has really bad nightmares.” America began to chew on the cap of the pen, eyebrows furrowed together.

“We all have nightmares, lad,” England replied quickly, missing the pensive look on the North American nation’s face. He sighed softly as he flipped through a folder deftly, the rustling of papers filling the room along with the muted beats from America’s iPod.

“No shit.” America took his feet down and tilted further into his chair. “But do you have them every single night?”

“No,” England admitted, looking up once again to meet America’s worried blue gaze.

“Right, I mean, I’ve been staying up at night this week” And he had. He would pretend to fall asleep until Russia followed suit, hesitatingly as if he knew nothing good would come from resting, and waited until Russia would awake. What surprised him though was that if it was nightmares, Russia wouldn’t even twitch until he lurched forward like a drowning man praying for air. He never slept more than two hours.

“Is that why you look so tired?” England asked, nodding to the deep gray encircling his eyes.

America waved his hand in agitation. “Yeah, now shut up. Every night he wakes up shuddering and I keep thinking he’s going to cry.” America looked down to the floor, silent in thought before moaning miserably, “How could I have not noticed?”

“Because you’re daft.”

America turned his gaze up and shrugged. “Fine, whatever.Maybe I deserve that. But I’ve tried asking him if it was a dream and he never answers.” The first night America had stayed awake he had feared it might have been an attack from the violent jolt as he awoke. It took Russia and hour to assure him it wasn’t that and to go back to sleep.

England leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Have you tried ‘talking’ or really talking?”

“The difference being?”

“Asked more than once,” England stated while regrouping a few stray papers into a new folder and then tucking it into his briefcase.

“Well, no. He distracts me with sex.” At this, America coughed and looked away, his cheeks glowing a light pink.

England smirked. “Clever.”

“You’re not helping!”

With a sigh, England stood up and walked towards the hotel window, looking out at the dark Boston skyline. “Maybe he simply does not want to talk about it. We all have our sordid pasts that come to haunt us at one point or another.” The face reflected on the glass pane was stern and tinted with a well-hidden sadness. America watched the other nation’s back before looking at the wall. Outside the hotel door a woman was talking to her child as they walked through the halls.

“But Artie,” he muttered, “this is every single night. He doesn’t sleep anymore.”

“He’ll say something eventually.” England looked away from the skyline and drew the curtains closed.

America took a long sigh, the heavy scent of cleaning supplies filling his mouth. “No he won’t. He’s as stubborn as I am.” When England looked as if he were about to retort, he tacked on quietly, “He nearly fainted in a cross walk this afternoon. He could have been hit by a car if I hadn’t pulled him aside.”

Both England and America looked to the floor in thought and America furrowed his hands though his hair, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. The fake golden light from the bedside lamp casted thick shadows over his hands and America stared at them thoughtfully.

“How did you find out?” England asked, cutting through the silence.

America put his glasses back on, brushing his bangs away. “I was talking to Lithuania and he mentioned it. He said Russia looked happy and asked if the nightmares were lessening.” With a sad laugh, America looked away from England and to the wall. “I guess they’ve been going on for years, and I’m only picking up on this now. I just don’t know what to do. How can I be a hero if I can’t do anything?” America put his head into his hands. “I just don’t want to see him hurt.”

“You really are worried.”

“Of course I’m worried. I love him.” America glanced up at England, honest truth shining in his eyes. England stared back, green eyes flickering as he searched his faced and then folded his hands into his lap, taping his foot slowly against the floor.

“I think I may know one way to help.”

“Really!” America shot out of the chair and stood up, looking to England in a mixture of relief and excitement.

“Hold your tongue, I wasn’t finished.” England’s glare made America’s jaw snap shut and he waited, nearly quivering. When he was satisfied that the younger nation wouldn’t interrupt, he folded his arms and continued, “However, I am not sure if it would work. You’ll have to give me a day to check into it.” England crossed his arms. “It’s nothing to play trivial games with. Sometimes what you want is not what you get. It could be dangerous.”

“I don’t care.” America said blandly.

“I know you don’t care, but I would prefer it if you would think once or twice!” England huffed. When all he got in return was America’s flat stare, he shook his head and stood up, motioning that America should make his way to the door. “I’ll think about it. Until then, get out of my room and let me be.” He pushed America out and handed his paperwork to him, shutting the hotel door.

“Thanks!” he said to the shut door and smiled.

He then began to walk towards where Russia was staying in the hotel until they returned to America’s home in Maine when the meetings would be finally over.

— — —

America used the spare hotel card to swipe into Russia’s room, noting the lights were off. He slipped out of his suit jacket and hung it on the chair, using the lights of the Boston skyline glowing in the inky night. Moving to turn on the lights to the suite, he stopped when he heard the rustling of sheets. He toed off his shoes. Stepping further in, he smiled at seeing Russia fast asleep on the bed.

Quietly padding over, he stopped at the bed and brushed his hand against the other’s jaw, blue eyes soft. When his thumb brushed over Russia’s cheekbone, he paused, a frown crossing his lips as he realized his fingers were wet. America pulled his hand away, and kneeled down to Russia’s height.

“Russia,” He murmured, rubbing the other nation’s shoulder. Now that he was paying attention, it was obvious that Russia was not sleeping peacefully. The taller nation’s breathing was quick and rapid, shoulders shivering. “Russia,” America tried again, but the other did not wake. Getting worried, America raised his voice again, shaking his shoulder. “Ivan!”

With a gasp, Russia’s eyes snapped open. His violet eyes were wild and unfocused in the dim amber light, darting for a danger that wasn’t there. America kept a steady pressure on Russia’s arm, a hushed soothing noise flowing forth from his lips. When Russia stopped his soft gasping, his hand flew to his neck and then up slowly to his eyes where he rubbed tiredly at them.

“Are you okay?” Alfred asked.

Russia stilled and looked to him through the parted veil of his bangs. For the first time, America found himself looking down at Russia and feeling that the other nation was worn thin and fatigued; small even.

Ridiculous. 

“I am fine.”

“Liar.” America brushed one of Russia’s bangs aside.

Russia said nothing and pulled away from the touch. “I am fine. It was just…”

“Just a nightmare?” America supplied and stood up.

“ _Da._ ”

America pushed on his arm, giving him a timid smile when Russia looked up in confusion. “Move over. I’m tired too.”

“Then you should go to your own hotel room.” Russia sat up in the bed and moved over. America smiled and climbed in, still wearing his dress shirt and slacks. He took his glasses off, perching them near the dim digital clock with a clatter.

“Nah, too scared.” He placed his head on the Russia’s chest, listening to his heart wind down from its rapid beating. “I’ve heard that this place is haunted. Then again, this is Boston. Can’t turn a corner without bumping into a ghost.”

Russia hummed in the darkness of the hotel room. America looped his arm around him in an awkward half hug, breathing in deeply the scents of wood fire, cold winter air, and chamomile. Russia was still for what felt like forever to America and it wasn’t until he was nearly asleep that Russia pressed his forehead to his own and took a slow shuddered breath.

America made his mind up instantly. Who cared if it was dangerous, he would stop the nightmares.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the sound of two women laughing in the hallway that finally woke America up. His face was pressed against the mattress with the pillows on the floor. Ugh. His lips were so dry from the hotel air they felt as though they’d crack as he yawned. America rolled over, grabbing his glasses from the nightstand and scanned the empty hotel room. Russia wasn’t there. With a sigh and rolling the cricks out of his neck, America looked down to his wrinkled slacks and frowned. His dress shirt lay trapped under the pillows and he pulled it out, shaking it twice before padding over to the bathroom. He stopped to look at the clock.

It was 7:12 and the meetings would resume at 8:30. It didn’t surprise him that Russia was gone, even if it was his own hotel room. He splashed water on his face, drying off with the towel hanging by the sink. After combing his hair to something that looked decent, he finally noticed the square of white paper sitting on the chair where his shoes were placed. Scanning it as he balanced and slid on his right shoe, America put the note into his pocket and then slid the other shoe on.

Russia was downstairs at the pool since he had ‘fallen asleep early’ and ‘woken up early’. Alfred said bullshit to that, and shrugged on his suit jacket to head back to his own room and grab a change of clothes. Then he would stalk down a cup of coffee and find out where the other man was.

He walked down the hotel hallway; glad there weren’t any other nations walking by. America’s blue eyes became distant as he thought about Russia. The violent reaction last night was disconcerting and left a thick oily knot of discomfort in America’s gut. Was it always like that? Russia waking nearly crazed with fear. America knew that he slept like the dead. It was possible he had just never heard it before. Or maybe the nightmares were getting worse.

Finally coming to his door, he stopped and slid his card key into the slot, smiling as the door clicked opened and flashed a green light. There was a mint on his pillow and he popped it into his mouth, looking about and rummaging through his closet to find another outfit for the day.

Once he changed into a navy suit, white dress shirt, and dark red silk tie, he dashed out of the room to get to the elevators and hunt down Russia. Hopefully he could find him before the meeting and make sure he was all right. Truthfully, with the lack of sleep, America was wondering if Russia was acting a little more reckless. While it was true a nation couldn’t die from lack of sleep, it wasn’t good for their mental states. Yesterday, America had caught him signing something he hadn’t read– which Russia never did. He was strict over paperwork. Luckily, it was nothing but an attendance sheet and agreeing that no weapons would be brought to the meeting. Maybe that wasn’t really something to worry about. And yet America couldn’t help but worry. The day before the conference has started Russia had nearly fainted in the middle of a crosswalk, bumping into America’s back and sending them both fumbling towards the ground. America had caught him and hadn’t questioned the lie about tripping Russia gave. Five minutes later he had nearly nodded asleep while waiting for the train to stop. 

America twitched when the elevator door closed. His mind began to flash with everything that could go wrong; the first being him drowning in the pool after fainting. America took a breath and looked up at the lights. _Calm down_ , he thought, _Russia’s fine. You’re over reacting._

The elevator opened in the lobby. America walked across the marble tile and made his way to where the small hotel coffee shop was. America sighed in relief seeing Russia standing in line, speaking into a cell phone in soft Russian. His pale blonde hair was still damp and shone brightly under the pendant lights. Taking a deep breath and savoring the thick aroma of baked goods and fresh coffee, America slinked over to Russia’s side and smiled.

Russia’s violet eyes flickered down and he returned the smile, though it was thin, and muttered a few last terse words before turning off the phone. “You finally woke up.”

“Jeeze, it’s what? Eight now? It’s not like I slept in until lunch,” he huffed and looked at the options for coffee. He settled on a bacon breakfast sandwich and a Redeye. “At least you didn’t drown in the pool,” America muttered to himself.

“Was I supposed to drown in the pool?” Russia asked curiously.

“I dunno. Were you?” America grabbed his wallet from his pocket and slipped out his credit card. “What do you want?”

“I can pay for myself.”

“Yeah, and you’re not. So what do you want?” Russia nudged him and America simply shrugged.

When they got to the counter, America ordered his breakfast and coffee, and after some prodding, got Russia’s order too. A medium herbal tea and plain croissant. After paying and snagging a free sample of a blueberry muffin, he trotted over to Russia and sat down next to him. The older man had one hand furrowed into his pale blond hair and was staring tiredly at the table. America watched on in concern, but stayed silent. When their order was called he snatched their stuff and set it down on the small café table. America grabbed the coffee and handed it to Russia, waiting until he took a sip and looked up in confusion.

“I ordered the herbal tea.”

“Yeah. You need the caffeine of awesome espresso though. I’ll drink the tea as long as you don’t tell England.” America put his finger up with a conspiratorial grin and winked, laughing softly at the small blush that appeared on the other man’s face. America's grin nearly went away after the first sip of tea. Russia laughed.

“You didn’t say it was chamomile!”

“You were there as I ordered.” Russia leaned back in his chair amused.

“Why do people like tea in the morning? It taste like hot marinated flowers.” America really didn’t hate it that much, he just wanted to make Russia laugh.

“I like my morning tea,” Russia growled. America noticed just how pronounced the dark circles under his eyes were.

“You also like your morning vodka, but I don’t see you drinking it.” 

Russia hummed in response, looking down at the coffee in his hand. America noticed the small tremor in Russia’s hand. Russia put his coffee down yawned. He frowned worriedly, but sipped at the tea.

And although he was missing his morning coffee, it was worth it to see the fatigue slowly fading from Russia’s eyes and seeing him standing up a little taller. America bit into his sandwich as he walked down the hall to where the meeting hall was and savored the warmth and flavor of the gooey cheddar cheese and crisp bacon.

**\--- --- ---**

America sat in boredom, switching between scrawling little pictures of a superhero saving the earth from an asteroid and intermittently taking down notes. It was so dry in there and the fact that there was only five more minutes left for the day made it even worse.

He had found England before the meeting had started. But before he could ask anything, England had just glared and held up his hand to say, “Not until the end of the day.” He then sat down next to a confused France and engaged in their daily banter. America had sulked for a minute and then plopped down in his seat to stare down the clock.

It was agonizing to wait. Russia was studiously taking notes and America chewed on the end of his pen. Was the clock stopped? No, it was just ridiculously slow. Glancing over to England, he sighed and then looked back to the clock.

“And I believe that’s all for today. The meeting will resume at nine tomorrow morning.”

America could have jumped for joy! Instead he put his notes away carefully, keeping an eye of England. He saw the other man coming over and quickly snapped his case shut while adjusting his glasses, listening to the murmur of the tired nations around him. Russia folded his notes together, the thick paper rasping against each other, and looked up when England finally stopped in front of them.

“Are you ready?”

“Yep!” America grabbed his case and pushed the chair back in with his hip, nearly quivering in anticipation.

“Ready for what?” Russia asked, glancing up at the two of them.

America gave him a smile and patted his shoulder. “England’s helping me with a favor. You should go back to the room and relax. I’ll see you later for dinner, ‘kay?”

Russia’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but he nodded tiredly. “I will see you later than.”

“Kayloveyoubye!” America shouted in a garble and pulled England behind him as he exited the room quickly.

Once outside the doors, England wrenched his hand free from America’s. “Stop trying to rip my arm off.”

“Sorry Artie.” America turned and looked to the older nation. “So where too?”

“My room,” England muttered and began to walk down the hall to where the elevators were. “And I didn’t say that anything is happening yet.” He pressed the elevator door button and turned to America with a frown. “There are things I need to explain to you about the spell.”

“Spell?”

“Don’t you even start with me lad, I’m not in the mood and this is a favor.” England stepped into the elevator and pressed for the eighth floor. His thick brows were furrowed together and he gave America a severe look.

At the words, America’s posture had relaxed and he threw a thankful look to England. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” England muttered and glanced up at the doors as the elevator came to a halt and let out a small ‘ding’. He strode out and quickly walked to his room, 814, unlocked the door and pointed to America to sit down on the bed as he took the chair.

When America put down his briefcase and then took off his suit jacket, he stared at England and waited for him to talk. The other man was furrowing his hand through his hair, looking down to a sheet of paper crammed with writings and small drawings.

“I think now is a good time to remind you that magic is fickle and sometimes what you want isn’t exactly what you get.”

“Okay,” America said. “I get it.” He leaned forward. “I just want to help him.”

England stopped walking for a moment, and leaned against the window. “I can only think of one way to help stop Russia’s nightmares,” England finally muttered. America didn’t say anything and waited for him to continue, knowing if he said something it would only agitate the smaller man. “And it has the potential to be dangerous. Of course I would just say no, if I thought it really would be, but…Well, there’s this one phrase in the spell I have and I just don’t like the translation of it.” His green eyes flickered up, surveying America’s face, and he continued while flipping through some other sheets of paper. He pushed away from the glass, going over to the hotel desk and pulled out a small black tome.

“There is a spell in which you can mirror the thoughts of others. Or, well, if I hadn’t modified it. In this version, you act as a mirror and amplifier as well. Capture the thoughts, mirror them inside you, and guide them into a direction you want. ”

“Guide?” America finally cut in, starting to loose just what England was talking about.

“Guide. You can’t get rid of the nightmares, as nearly all dreams are based on something we have seen or heard of before. In fact, I’ve heard it said we cannot create the faces we see in our dreams. However, you can cull them aside so he does not encounter them. He looked up and added, “Lock them away in a sense.”

“You’re talking as if they’re real.” He rubbed his hands together and leaned back on the bed.

England’s green eyes flickered up sharply. “They seem real when they happen, don’t they?” America nodded reluctantly and England began to scribble on a new sheet of paper, frowning at it. “Dreams, thoughts…they’re all forms of energy. This is a manipulation of it, in a sense.”

Silence passed between them and America finally questioned, “So what’s so dangerous about this. Seems pretty tame, right? Put some dreams in their place and get them to leave Russia alone?”

At the question, England put down the papers and folded his arms. “That would be because this is a curse.”

Whatever important information was supposed to be conveyed through that severe phrase missed America. “So?” he muttered.

England rolled his eyes and looked to the tope walls. “To put it simply, what ever will happen to you in the dream will happen to you physically. If you get a cut, your body will be cut and if you break your arm, your arm breaks physically.” He leaned back in his chair, still looking away. “Invading other’s consciousness or bodies are considered dark magic, and thus have an adverse effect on the user.”

“What?” America asked, sitting up straight and stopping with the fiddling of his shirt buttons.

“You don’t want to go through with it?” England questioned. When America said nothing, he began to write on the paper in front of him. “Of course, that’s all according to Ingram’s theory of Bodily Consciousness, which may I add is over 600 years old and severely outdated in almost every other aspect. The consciousness has it’s own guard. Barrier is the better translation, I think.” England paused with his pen in the air, “So, again, are you sure you wish to continue?”

“Of course I do. But, do curses usually work this way?” America stood up and walked over to England in curiosity to what he was furiously writing.

“Whatever you do can come back thrice fold. Why do you think I haven’t cursed the pants off of France yet?” He sniffed, “The idiot isn’t worth it.” England scanned the paper and nodded at it, standing up and walking towards the bathroom. “Then if you’re still up for it, I’ll cast it and you can get going with helping Russia.”

“Okay.” America looked at England blankly and the smaller nation gave him an annoyed look. “Aren’t you going to say the magic words and, poof?”

“Idiot!” England hissed and grabbed America’s arm. “Magic is far more complicated than that.”

“Why are we going to the bathroom?”

“Because no one will look for you there.” He opened the door and flicked on the light.

“Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

“Just shut up and follow my bloody instructions!”

In the end, England got America to sit in the center of the tiled bathroom as he prepared the curse while perched on the vanity. America amused himself by humming and flipping through the hotel’s room service book. Finally after nearly an hour, England was done and he stood up to survey his work. Satisfied, he tucked the papers into his shirt pocket and stood back.

“Listen up America, because this is very important. In order to navigate through the dreams, I it is easiest to envision it as a corridor of doors.” England stopped, “The manuscript says maze, but I think that’s a terrible plan for you.”

America was about to contest this, but England continued.

“However you decide to navigate from there will depend on Russia’s own mind.” He paused and then looked down at America. “Did you tell him you’re doing this?”

“No. He’d be pissed. Of course, I’m sure he’ll be pissed when he finds out. Either way he’ll be pissed.” The light of the bathroom was harsh and America shielded his eyes as he looked up.

England shrugged. “He’ll only notice you if you bother him. Try to make the dream do something it shouldn’t. Otherwise you’ll just be background noise.”

“So stealth mode?”

“Something like that.” England shut his eyes and took a breath, looking as if he were about to start.

“Hey Artie?”

“Yes America?”

“I know you said if I get cut in there, I actually get that cut…so if I die in there, I’ll actually die?”

England’s green eyes opened and he stared down grimly. “Yes.”


	3. Chapter Three

America was lying in his hotel room alone, staring up at the dark ceiling as he waited for Russia to fall asleep. A dull headache stamped along his brain and America drew his hand through his hair slowly. The TV danced cold blue shadows against the walls as an old movie played. The volume was muted. America rolled over to reach for the remote to shut it off. Instead, wincing at the throb in his head from the movement, he stared out across the room, eyes slowly adjusting. He finally snatched the remote and shut off the TV. A slit of yellow city light slipped through the curtains, scarring the dark room’s floor. Only the sound of his breathing and the dim drone of the air conditioner accompanied him. The clock next to him steadily glowed 1:24 in a soft green and America began to run through the day’s events, humming quietly to the darkness.

After England had casted the spell, the other man had barely crossed the bathroom, yawning about side affects to watch out for and passed out on the bed. America had slipped out after that, starting to feel the twinge of a headache. His arms felt sore as well for some reason. He walked through the hotel aimlessly for about ten minutes, silently mulling all the warnings and information England had told him. He stopped at Russia’s room, slipping the card into the slot, and then entered the room. Russia was sitting in one of the chairs at the desk, reading a yellowed paperback book while curling his scarf between his fingers. America smiled and briskly entered the room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Ready for dinner?” he asked, stuffing his pensive mood far down and locking it away. His head throbbed. Maybe he should take an Advil.

Russia looked up, violet eyes tired and unfocused for a moment before he stood up and nodded. His soft violet dress shirt was open at the collar and he had rolled the cuff up to his elbow. “You were with England for a long time.”

“Aw, jealous?” America teased. He leaned against Russia’s solid body, resting on the taller man’s shoulder and rubbing his forehead before pulling away. “You know him, he just loves to talk, and talk, and talk.”

“And you refuse to listen.” Russia placed the book down, saved his place with a receipt, and grabbed his wallet from the nightstand. He turned back to America while buttoning his shirt back up and rolling down his sleeves, and then smirked at the other’s playful pout.

“Anyway, where do you want to go? I already got my McDonalds quota at lunch since I know you hate it there.” America padded into Russia’s bathroom, focused on foraging some sort of painkiller. He scrounged through the shaving kit as Russia’s voice floated in from the main room.

“McDonalds is not a romantic evening meal,” Russia growled. He stepped into the frame of the bathroom door and put on a lightweight black coat. “What are you looking for?”

“Oh, you know, sinus headache. Got Advil?”

Russia pulled a small white bottle out of his coat pocket and tossed it to America, addressing the questioning look America gave before swallowing two pills. “Headache this morning, I did not sleep well.” he said while walking to the door and pulling it open. He flicked off the lights after America stepped out and shut the hotel door behind him.

“You didn’t look like you had a headache today.” America glanced at Russia who was frowning. Turning his blue eyes to the elevators, America began to hum and pressed the elevator button. “Anyway, so what do you want?”

“You decide.” Russia furrowed his hand through his blond hair, looking out at the Boston skyline from the window in the waiting area. It was dark out and all the skyscrapers were aglow with soft yellow and white lights. Port and starboard lights bobbed in the harbor near by.

“Let’s see…” America furrowed his brows in thought; silently ticking off places on his fingers and then grinned at Russia when the elevator doors closed. “Spanish?”

“I suppose.” Russia glanced down at his phone and then pocketed it, turning his violet gaze back to America.

“Tapas it is. I know this great place on Boylston Street. Great food, especially their paella and olive board.” America rubbed his temple lightly and added, “Great sangria as well.”

Russia just gazed at him and America folded his arms across his chest.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Russia murmured and bent down slightly to give him a small peck on the top of his head as the elevator doors opened.

That had been almost six hours ago. And although dinner had been great and the wine and company even better, America had gone back to his own hotel room claiming a headache. Which, he did actually have, but it wasn’t something that really would have stopped him from tailing behind Russia into his bed any other night. The other man had given him a long kiss, as if to remind him what he would be missing. In the dark hotel room, America shoved a pillow over his head and groaned. It was easy to see the flash of disappointment in Russia’s eyes, and he had promised to meet him for breakfast the next morning. Damn, that kiss had left a tingling feeling all the way down to his toes! And here he was alone and awake for nothing so far. Here he was, waiting for Russia to fall asleep and for the dreams to start.

Whether or not this would work was still all questionable, but America secretly hoped that it would because every day Russia just looked that much more tired. The only thing that confused him was why was so tired outwardly now? If the nightmares were always there plaguing him, he had never showed it before. Were the dreams getting worse and he just refused to say anything about it? America rolled over in the bed while kicking the sheets to the side and stared at the clock again.

Finally, when it was almost two, he could feel sleep tugging at him. It came out of nowhere, like a black veil fluttering over his consciousness and America closed his eyes, wondering what would happen.

—

He was in a hall of doors, just like England had said. It was a dark place, dimly lit by only the glow that the multitude of doors emitted. There were different colors that seemed to stretch further than possible. It seemed to go on forever with several black, red, and white doors. America shivered and rubbed his arms. It was freezing here and only in a t-shirt and jeans, the cold was seeping deeply into his bones. He glanced down at the worn jeans and shirt. He had been in his nightclothes. Had he imagined them on? Next time he would have to imagine a jacket of some kind. Maybe his old aviator jacket.

“You think the big guy could dream about warm things,” America grumbled, rubbing his arms once more and looked to a black door where the cold seemed to be seeping from. He stepped towards it, recoiling when the wooden door shuddered and groaned. America pressed his hand to the door and it sprang open easily, ripping him inside before he could step back.

America fell to his knees by the force of the door’s pull, listening to the crunch of snow below him and felt the shock of his quickly freezing fingers. From under the curtain of his hair, he looked up at the snow filled valley he was in. It was silent and the bitter cold air burned his lungs. He began to shiver violently.

The crunching of snow came from behind him and America turned around, hands wrapped tightly around his bare arms. He looked in surprise at a small boy gathering a bundle of firewood under a tall pine a short distance away. He wore what looked like a linen shift, thin boots and a thin cap. Save for a cape that was lined with fur, the child looked like he should have frozen to death already. The cold air reddened the child’s cheeks and fingers. He rubbed at his nose in attempt to warm it before looking up. America blinked at seeing the wide violet eyes stare at him and then become fearful as he broke into a run, leaving the bundle of sticks behind.

“Russia?” America asked in confusion, knowing those violet eyes from anywhere.

America glanced behind him as he heard a deep thundering of what sounded like a horse Blue eyes widened from behind glasses as he stared at a large man, covered in rich red cloth and fur was riding on a black horse straight at him. America dove to the side, nearly trampled, and looked up from the snow as the horseman cut Russia off and jumped down, shoving Russia into the snow before the child could turn to another direction.

A cry came from Russia’s throat as the large man kicked him and America shot up, ignoring the cold that prickled and bit his skin, and ran towards them. The large man cracked his hand against Russia’s face and grabbed the child’s wrist harshly to pick him up. The child cried out.

“Stop!” America yelled as he sprinted close and jumped over the pile of firewood the child had left behind in his terror. The huge man fisted his hand in the young Russia’s hair, forcing him to look up as the man began to spit out curses.

“Fuck you, I said STOP!” America shouted. Finally reaching them, America shoved the man away from Russia, at the same time taking the young Russia into his grasp. America twisted away, sheltering the child against his chest. The second he had touched the man it had been as though an oil filled bubble had burst. He felt wrong, as though coated by something he couldn’t see or smell. Russia squirmed against his chest, bringing America back to reality. He put the child down in the snow behind him. Before he had fully turned around the large man attacked, missing America’s head but landed the punch in the shoulder. America stumbled back from the force and toppled into the snow, leaving Russia vulnerable and straight in the path of the fierce man.

The man looked directly at America, predatorily sizing him up. The Mongol Empire. At least, he guessed. No, America was sure that it was due to the dream that he knew it was Mongol. He had been one of the nations who had died long ago, but not before leaving his mark over Asia and Europe. Mongol, who had grabbed Russia again when America had fallen back, now dropped the child into the snow harshly. Russia lay still. America took a step closer, fully intending to punch the empire’s teeth out.

And America suddenly realized as the man stalked closer to him that this was very, very real. He could feel the old power surrounding the Empire, something ancient and malicious lurking behind his eyes that sent cold shiver down his spine.

“Who are you?” The empire’s black eyes didn’t reflect light.

America glared at Mongol and kept his back straight. It was a dream. Just a dream. While jabbing his thumb at his chest, he said loudly, “I’m America. Of course, that doesn’t matter half as much as the fact that you have pissed me off so damn much.” at this America crossed his arms and studied at the hulking nation in front of him, “I said leave him alone.”

The large nation studied him and then began to laugh, gesturing to the younger Russia who was still sitting in on the snowy ground and cradling his arm. “You want It for yourself?”

America gazed back at the empire, a wave of revulsion filled him until it ignited like a ball of gas, turning into an inferno. Body tensing, he gritted his teeth. Narrowing his blue eyes, which were dark in anger, he took a step forward and was silent for once. America raised his fists.

When the empire simply smirked, America’s frown deepened. He was not letting a stupid dream intimidate him or hurt Russia.

“Now, I’ll give you one warning to go back to whatever hole you’re living in and leave this kid alone.” He shifted his weight, ready to attack and grinned in anticipation. He wanted to knock that nightmare right on its ass.

“You are amusing,” the empire chuckled finally while walking to Russia who was attempting to get to his feet in time to flee, “You too, will make a good slave.”

“Warning’s gone,” America snapped and crashed his fist into the empire’s neck, which yielded from skin and bone and suddenly became a figure of smoke. Before his eyes, the fur clad man dissipated and left the snow filled valley without another mark. America looked around; unable to see anything other than the snow capped pines and stripped birches. Even the horse was gone. America glanced down at the younger Russia still sitting in the snow. He was shaking slightly with a bruise already forming around his right wrist.

America’s nostrils flared in anger. “I should have tarred and feathered that son of a bitch and then strung him higher than the sun.” He turned his gaze to the child nation. Violet eyes were wide and he squeaked, hiding under his arms and burrowing into the folds of his loose clothing.

“Whoa now, chill there. I’m not gonna hurt you.” America got down on his haunches; peering at the face he had never seen and yet knew so well. Humming, he took Russia’s wrist as gently as he could to check the bruise. America gave a soft smile as violet eyes peaked out. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. Nothing’s going to harm you.” He frowned at purple colored bruise blooming across Russia’s pale wrist and muttered under his breath, “Nothing’s going to harm you. Not on my watch.”

Russia blinked, staring up at the protective nation in amazement. “America?” he questioned.

The word swirled and began to dissolve, like black ink washing down a drain. America attempted to latch onto Russia, refusing to leave the child out in the middle of the woods by himself. He couldn’t do anything though, as they were not his dreams and he found himself back in the corridor of doors.

He stared down at his hand, still feeling a little sick. No doubt this wasn’t the real nightmare Russia had, as America had interrupted the events about to unfold. But even thinking that this was only a snapshot made his stomach roil. There was a clatter, like a lock being turned and the door went dull and grey. America pressed his hand against it. Had the dream dissipated? To test, America had to put a hand on one of the red doors, accidentally pushing it open and falling in.

Like the last door, it vanished as soon as he entered the dream. America blinked around the landscape, staring at the thousands of wildflowers that dotted the grassy hillside and trailed up towards the low mountain peaks. Their sent gently caressed him; so fragrant, he batted at his nose to stop from sneezing. America took another step in and began to navigate through the tall grass. Russia, as America knew him now, sat in the distance on a large grey rock. Looking into a stream that wove through the meadow, Russia was a still as a sentinel. America said nothing as he stood behind him and Russia ignored him. That or he didn’t know he was there.

The dream had to have been something more abstract than from memory for dark black clouds streamed into the sky and sent pale grey raindrops over the meadow. Every drop that fell ate away at the scene like acid until nothing was left. The acidic rain consumed even Russia as he had stared sadly up at the black sky.

America blinked. He knew that grey landscape as well as he knew the scream of a bomb falling. Dirt exploded on his left, spraying the earth over him as the cacophony of the shells exploded. A hand grabbed his shirt and America fell backwards into a pit of mud. His cheek scraped a wood post and blood welled and ran down it.

In front of him, a faceless soldier wearing a First World War uniform was pointing at something, shaking America’s shoulder when he didn’t react. America pushed the faceless man away, disconcerted by the blank white canvas without eyes or mouth and began to slosh through the trench to find Russia.

Gunfire cracked around him, and America ducked, scrambling back when a dead soldier fell on top of him. Sweat, blood, and earth assaulted his nose. He cleaned a glop of mud away from his eyes. Finally noticing the blood, America touched his cheek as he knelt in the trench, England’s words coming back to his mind like an electric shock. Shit. He had to be more careful. He pulled a helmet off a dead faceless soldier.

America ran as fast as he could, looking for any sign of Russia in the trenches. The faceless soldiers continued to fall, their blood black unlike the red they had once bled years ago. There was no time to think of that though. This wasn’t America’s dream, and the sooner he could steer Russia out of this one, the better he would feel.

Finally he caught sight of the other nation from the back as he knelt by a wounded soldier who was slowly dying from a bullet to the stomach. The black blood looked garish against the soldiers uniform. Another faceless man was trying his best to stop the bleeding, but his hands were hesitant, proving he knew it was a lost cause.

America clapped his hand on Russia’s shoulder, shouting over the cries of gunfire into the other nation’s ear, “You have to wake up!” Unlike the previous dream, he couldn’t just punch an army away. It would be better for Russia to just wake up.

Russia’s violet eyes were hard as he turned to look at America. “Why are you here? I thought you were in France.” He was still stuck in the dream.

America paused, and looked down mud and blood covered jeans and t-shirt before looking back at Russia. “Do I look like I just came from France?”

Russia scowled and shoved past him, walking towards an officer who was holding a radio. America frowned and jogged along side him, trying not to slip in the mud. “Russia, it’s just a nightmare. The war is over!” He ducked at the crack of gunfire above.

Russia looked furious as he turned to America, but a sudden scream came slicing through the air, stilling them both in well-learned fear. “GAS!”

“Fuck.” America grabbed Russia’s arms and turned him to face him. “I don’t have a mask and I really don’t feel like having my lungs burned, so wake up!”

Nothing happened. The faceless soldiers scrambled to get their masks on. More screams filled the air along with the cracks of explosions. Dirt spayed and crumbled over Russia’s helmet, dusting the shoulders of his khaki uniform. The taller man moved to pull away and America pulled him in close as a shell exploded nearby, tilting the world upside down as they were both sent sprawled into the trench floor. America hugged Russia tightly in a desperate attempt to end the nightmare.

He could have wept as he saw the scene fade, and stared into Russia’s eyes until he too faded. The corridor was back and he was lying down. The mud was gone from his jeans and shirt. America didn’t move for a few minutes, too stunned by the graphic scenes seemingly enveloping Russia’s mind. No wonder he couldn’t sleep.

Another click of a lock sounded and he watched from the corner of his eye as the Red door faded to grey. Remembering just why he was there, America hoisted himself up, arms shaking slightly. He looked back to the doors. “Alright.” He checked his cheek for bleeding and studied the black, red, and white doors. “Red sucks. Black fucking sucks. Do I even want to know what white is?” he pulled his hand away and slowly walked to the white door and pressed it open.

As he walked in, he turned to see that the door was still there, leading out to the corridor where the other doors stood. That was different already. This place smelled like orange peels and bitter coffee. America turned, looking about the screened-in farmer’s porch and stared at himself in confusion.

The dream America was sitting on a blue rocker, a cup of coffee in his hand as he flipped through a worn green bound book. The steam from the coffee rose into the air, dancing and swirling until it faded away. Discarded orange peels were set on the small table next to him, a blue upturned milk carton with a white plate on top.

“Well this is bizarre,” America mumbled and walked by him dream self. The other America didn’t notice him and continued to read though the pages. He looked up only when Russia came out of the front door and walked over to the second chair. Russia did not notice him either.

“What do you think of the book?” Russia asked, a cup of tea in his own hands. America waved his hands to see if Russia noticed him, but he seemed truly ignorant to the fact the other was there. Maybe he had to touch him for Russia to notice.

“It’s dumb,” his dream self said, still reading through the pages without intent to put it down.

“You say that about all my books.”

“…Yeah.”

Russia smiled and America was surprised at how warm it was. He sipped at the mug of tea in his hands and tilted his head, pale blond hair falling to the side. “Did you even hear me?” This time his dream self was too engrossed in the book to say anything and Russia just smiled as he looked out at the street beyond the house.

America scratched his head and studied Russia. It didn’t look like the scene was going to become something horrific or anything. Actually, it looked like this was a nice dream. America took one last glance at the content Russia sitting next to his dream self and walked out the door, closing the white door as quietly as he could. He stood in the dark hallway, staring at the floor.

So white was good! The other two were the problem. Red was horrible, and black was just disheartening to say the least. At least then he knew which ones to go to. And while he dearly just wanted to visit all of the white doors, he knew it would be the red and black ones that were bothering Russia. With a sigh, America stared at the closest black door and kicked it open, hearing the screams already before he even pushed inside.


	4. Chapter Four

America woke with a start, blue eyes snapping open as he gasped and fell out of the bed, banging his wrist against the nightstand as he desperately tried to save himself. He groaned, lying sprawled and tangled in the sheets while he stared at the ceiling. Cursing and rolling a crick out of his neck, America got to his knees and glanced at the clock while rubbing his temporarily numb wrist. It was 6:43. The gray morning light seeped through the cracks of the soft blue curtains of the hotel room, leaving a narrow streak of light on the dark carpet floor.

Sighing, America leaned back against the bed while on the floor, laying his arms against his knees and stared at his outstretched fingers. His knuckles were scratched. Thoughts buzzed through his mind at a rapid and angry pace, like a nest of hornets shaken and unleashed.

That last dream had been hard. He hadn’t even been able to find Russia or the source of the nightmare. Furrowing a hand through his hair, America winced as he found it sticky with dried blood. No doubt from both his cut on his cheek and the wound on his forehead. He scowled at that, remembering just how majorly un-heroically it had come about. After all the running about and evading bullets, he had cut his forehead by sprinting into a wall!

With another sigh, America huffed and jumped up to change into some new clothes. He clicked on the bathroom light while squinting and made his way to the sink. Damn. He looked bad. While wetting a cream colored washcloth and removing the dry blood tattooed to his cheek, America’s mind wandered back to that last dream.

It had felt like he was trapped in hell. He had searched for Russia as best as he could, but he had been unable to do anything. Gripping the sink, America looked down at the drain as his stomach rolled, the images of all the purple corpses that had been drowned and of all the people strung from the trees. It had been horrific and as he had looked for Russia frantically, he had tripped over more than one body.

Stripping, he walked into the shower and turned it to as hot as it could go and stepped under the steady stream of scalding water, still trapped by the images of Russia’s nightmares. America had been chilled to the bone despite the trees in full bloom and the flowers fully opened. He doubted it was the spring air of the dream that has chilled him so. Shaking his head and looking at his reddening skin, America lathered the small bottle of soap and scrubbed hard at the remnants of the dream. He needed to get his mind off the dream.

Maybe that was a good idea. He should take Russia out and around Boston to get his mind off the dreams. America smiled at his own plan, but froze and stared at the bathroom door as he heard the door to his suite open loudly. “I’m in the shower,” he called and hurriedly poured a dab of shampoo into his hand and worked it into his golden hair. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

There was no reply and America rinsed off the suds at a frantic speed, watching the shower floor carefully until there were no more tinges of pink. Grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist, he walked back into the main room to see Russia standing by the windows of the balcony. Russia had opened the window and the sounds of the lively city filled the room. America grabbed the cup of coffee sitting next to the TV and padded over to Russia, joining him on the balcony despite being in only a towel.

Russia glanced down at him, and a small smile twitched on his lips before he took a sip of his tea and then muttered, “Dobraye ootra, Alfred.”

America pressed his forehead to Russia’s arm before leaning up and giving him a good morning kiss. “Morning to you too, babe.”

“How is your headache?” Russia looked out at the slowly awakening city, the sunlight making the glass panes of the skyscrapers glow gold. He took another sip of his tea and focused back on America.

“Oh, it’s fine. How about you? No more nightmares?”

Shifting slightly, Russia leaned against the railing. “Nyet. Not so much dreams as memories from the past.”

America nearly choked on his coffee at that. All that shit was from his past? He stared wide-eyed at Russia, mouth opening and closing while his mind tried to come up with something to say. America knew that there was a lot that happened to nations. Hell, plenty had happened to him and as much as he hated to think of it, he was only a small blip on the radar in comparative lifespan. But he had never really thought about it all that much about anyone else. Especially when it was someone he loved.

“Is something wrong?” Russia asked, standing up and taking a step closer to America as he seemed to realize that some wires in the other nation’s brain had short-circuited. The taller man’s hand fell onto America’s shoulder and his violet eyes narrowed in concern.

America laughed weakly and waved his hand. “Nah, just thinking it was funny that I dreamt of the same…you know, memories…and stuff.” He took another gulp of coffee, ignoring how it burned his tongue and throat.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

America gazed sadly at Russia before turning to look back at the city. You’re willing to talk about my dreams but you’re mum on your own? He shook his head, giving his million-watt smile. America lifted his head and gazed warmly at Russia. “If they bothered me, I’d say something to you.” America paused, searching violet eyes for any flicker of emotion. Finding none, he glanced down at the towel still wrapped around his waist. “I should change into something soon, I doubt everyone would like it if I came wearing this.”

“I wouldn’t mind it.” Russia’s hand strayed to Americas’ back and lower. America batted his hand away and walked into the room while looking for another suit for the day.

“Really? You wouldn’t mind it if I came half naked for all the other nations to see?” America hummed in question. He reached into the closet to pull out a pair of slacks when two possessive hands curled around his hips and pulled him against Russia closely.

“I would mind that.”

“I know,” America said and kissed his lips. Drawing back before anything could start, America pulled away and began to search for his phone and clean underwear while discarding the towel. “Tonight, I promise. I am not getting all messy after I showered.” He smirked at seeing Russia pout and adjusted the glasses perched on his nose. “Hey,” he called after pulling on boxer briefs and a clean white undershirt, “Do you want to walk around the city for a while? I’ll show you the Freedom Trail and everything. Oh! We can even go on the Swan Boats.”

“Swan Boats?” Russia asked as he sat down at the hotel desk and watched America get dressed.

“Yeah, they’re pretty fun. You want some food from home or to go out somewhere else for dinner?” He turned around as he finished pulling on dark gray slacks. “I know a great seafood place in the North End.”

Russia’s eyes narrowed and America glanced at him in confusion, pausing in pulling on his belt. The leather chair groaned as Russia stood up and crossed the room slowly. Still confused, America watched as Russia took his forearm and gently maneuvered him so his shoulder was towards the morning light. “What happened?” Russia asked.

“Huh?” America glanced down and blinked at the blue and purple bruise that had blossomed across his shoulder. Fuck. “Oh, I fell out of bed this morning. Must have cracked it on the nightstand,” he lied quickly and rolled his shoulder as a test. Damn. Russia’s nightmare’s packed a pretty strong punch.

Growing uncomfortable under Russia’s scrutiny, America waved him aside and buttoned his pants before grabbing his shirt and slipping it on. His fingers paused in buttoning up his shirt as Russia asked, “Then you hurt your forehead the same way?”

“I walked into a wall,” America muttered and turned around to stop the taller man from seeing his cheeks redden.

“You are a walking mess.”

“Hey.” America turned back around, meeting Russia’s amused gaze.

“I will have to make sure you are otherwise engaged tonight so you do not fall into nightstands or walk into more walls. For your own safety of course”

“That is literally how everyone will think is how I got his bruise,” America whined.

Russia’s fingers trailed down his side, pausing on the waistband on the pants and tucked his thumb inside. “Good.”

Face turning red all the way to his ears, America batted his hand away, turned, and walked away to look for a tie while muttering under his breath. Russia chuckled and sat on the bed as he waited for America to finish getting ready.

— — —

The bookstore America wandered into was quiet with an old cassette player playing Shostakovich. A fan near the desk blared loudly over the music where an elderly man read a bent and ripped copy of The Great Gatsby. America nodded as the man looked up and began to search through the old and new novels. Finally finding the section he was looking for, deft fingers flew over multicolored spines. Two minutes later, America was flipping through a dark blue paperback book, scanning through the brown pages and snapping it shut with a small triumphant smile. It would do.

It rang up $5.50 when he went to the register and the man put the book into a paper bag. “The Complete History of Russia? Kinda dry stuff,” he asked in a smoke ragged voice.

America glanced up from his wallet as he dug for 50 cents. “I don’t think so.” He put down a quarter and three dimes, sliding it across the counter.

“You’re a first then, other than those Russian majors from the universities.” The man gave a chuckle and handed over the book and a nickel. “Have a nice day.”

“You too,” America said and walked out to the busy Boston street. Russia was standing by a pay meter, looking across the street at an interior design store.

“Did you get your book?” Russia asked while coming to America’s side as they began to walk down the street. He adjusted his scarf and looked out to the harbor, the water liquid gold and sultry red from the setting sun.

“Yep. Gotta love Pynchon.” America gave a small nervous laugh while glancing away from the taller man. A twinge of guilt pulled at his gut at the lie. He looked about the street finally and tugged on Russia’s arm. “I know a good Italian place over here. Quick, good, and simple. Can’t go wrong with that.”

“And then back to the hotel?”

America hit his arm. “Who has the hormones of a teenager here: you or me? ‘Cause you’re contending for first place there, big guy.”

“It’s been a long time,” Russia said with a small frown as they walked through the narrow and winding streets: courtesy of British planning.

“Two days does not equal a long time. Sorry.” America grinned and looked through the windows curiously, seeing all the soccer jerseys that filled the windows of more than one shop. Russia looked on too, curious at seeing all the world uniforms on display.

“I thought you were not crazy about football,” Russia asked while pausing at the shop window.

America furrowed his brows before correcting him, “Soccer. And I’m not. But we’re in the North End.” When Russia gazed at him blankly America gestured to the area they were in. “It’s like little Italy here. You should have been here during FIFA a year or so back. They were broadcasting it on a huge screen and there were more than a few parties out there.” He tugged at Russia’s wrist and continued to walk. “Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised to run into the Italys here.”

Russia glanced down when America didn’t let go of his hand and instead continued to walk with their fingers firmly interlaced. Russia didn’t say anything, but took a step closer, and they walked to the restaurant in silence. He gave their hands a small squeeze and America reciprocated with a warm smile.

— — —

A haze seemed to fill the room as America tilted his jaw towards the darkened hotel ceiling, shutting his eyes as pleasure bloomed and soared through his body. He moaned, fingers curling around the nape of Russia’s neck and along his shoulders, as the room seemed to close in on them and grow warmer, hotter. More ardent and intimate. Harder.

Ah. America turned his face into the pillow as Russia nuzzled and kissed the column of his throat. Blue eyes opened, staring reverently into the eyes of the man he loved. Russia’s name poured from his lips as if it were the most holy gift given to him. _Ivan, Ivan, Ivan._

_I love you._

The world fell away to a blaze of white, stripping everything away until it was only him and Ivan. The world was a blur of tangled limbs and America’s back arched until slowly the white oblivion faded and he was left with the warm afterglow of pleasure. Russia collapsed on top of him and America focused his wayward gaze back to look at the head of pale blond hair, stroking it as he breathed deeply and raggedly.

Finally America allowed a deep chuckle past his swollen lips, “You’re crushing my ribs.”

“I am not,” Russia replied and slid towards the side of the bed, still draped over America’s body and hummed into the crook of his neck. Blue eyes flickered to watch as Russia as he rested his head on America’s shoulder, clutching tightly to the younger man’s frame as though he would disappear.

America turned to look up at the ceiling, feeling his heart slowly fade in it’s drumming against his chest. The warm body pressed next to him felt right and America shut his eyes. A minute passed and America turned to look at Russia, matted gold hair rasping against the pillows. “You’re not usually clingy like this.”

Russia’s fingers gripped tighter for a minute. “You are warm.”

America hummed and stared at the ceiling. “Russia?”

“Yes, America?”

“I’m sticky as fuck. I need to get up.”

Russia sighed, violet eyes narrowed slightly. “You are very poor at romantic moments.”

“Keeping it real, babe.” With a kiss against Russia’s forehead, he unraveled himself from Russia’s legs and arms while stumbling to the bathroom. Flipping the light on, he squinted against the retina burning light and grabbed two washcloths. Wetting them down and quickly wiping away the grime off himself with one and tossing it into the sink, he returned to the bed and nearly jumped onto Russia who let out a puff of breath in surprise.

Straddling him, America wiped the clean cloth over Russia’s brow and moved down to remove any grime. Almost instantly though, he felt the similar shadowy hands of sleep beginning to pull him. With a growl, America rocked Russia’s shoulder to wake him up.

“Hey. No sleeping yet.” However, exhaustion must have taken over, for Russia was already passed out. America slumped into the bed, swearing softly and hoping that first that he would be clothed and second that there would be a gun for him to wield this time as he was dragged into Russia’s dream.


	5. Chapter Five

America landed face-first into the floor of the corridor. He scrambled up to his knees and sat crouching, rubbing the bridge of his nose and forehead with his palm. Well, this hadn’t gone according to plan. With a sigh and waiting for the pain to recede slightly, America sat on the ground like a lump and sprawled out against the space between two white doors. Actually, now that he took a second to gaze at the corridor of doors, it looked like there were more white doors than last time. Beaming, America ran his hand through his hair before jumping up and starting his walk down the hall.

The corridor was dim with blue shadows and silent and still as death. The only light seemed to come from the white doors that lined the infinite hall and America glanced behind him, seeing that where he was walking towards was slowly growing dimmer. As America had found out last night, the nightmares would pull him in or draw attention to themselves. That last dream had sucked him from four doors down while he had tried to enter another white dream, despite him clawing the walls to stop.

Already, he could hear the breathy moans that slowly sailed by, weeping louder as he came to a halt in front of a black door. It did not drag him inside though, and America sighed as he looked down to see if his wish earlier had been granted. Although there was no gun in his pocket, someone’s consciousness (whether it was Russia’s or America’s own he couldn’t tell) had at least given him a pocketknife. That could come in handy and America stowed it into the deeper part of his back pocket. With another breath, America stepped forward and twisted the door handle, watching as the world dissolved into thick oily black smoke.

It didn’t dissipate as he stepped through, and as he hesitantly continued to walk forward, America could have sworn that there were faces in the black smoke. Suddenly it was hard to breathe. It felt as if a cord had been coiled around his neck and had just been pulled taunt. Crying out gutturally, America’s fingers scraped at the skin of his neck, finding nothing there but the slow and burning ache of the need for air. His vision blurred with the flares of red and hot white stars bursting before his eyes. The smoke seemed denser and America angled his head up as he tried to breathe. Falling to his knees, America held his throat while his muscles trembled for the air it needed to live and his eyes rolled, fading to black.

His face hit cold snow, wet against his cheek as pressure released and the air rushed back into his lungs. America rolled over, gasping and coughing for every ounce of bitter air. It stung his lungs, setting them on fire. He heaved, though nothing came out but his wild coughs. Slowly, America looked around him, massaging the ache from his throat and swore quietly with a grating rasp.

He was in a snow-drenched field with nothing but the thick white clouds of a blizzard about him. Purple shadows dappled the land from the stripped trees that quivered in the strengthening wind. America pushed himself out of the snow, tottering a bit before walking aimlessly. Something really hated him already. Maybe the nightmares were gaining up on him now instead of Russia. At that thought, a rough and painful bark of laughter trudged out from his throat and America continued to walk.

Hours went by, but he had not moved. The sun rose and fell, the winter gales gnawed at his fingers and cheeks. Again the sun rose with pale pink light and fell into the violet hues of night, but the trees in the distance had not come any closer. In fact, America thought and squinted as he paused to rest, they looked farther away. Glaring at the still blanketed sky, America’s once blue eyes were dark and stormy in anger. “When I find you,” he shouted to the clouds, “I will fucking destroy you.”

The wind gusted harder, nearly toppling him back into the snow and America swore he heard a peal of laughter dancing in the air.

He folded his arms to conserve warmth and continued to walk. He shut his eyes for a moment to keep the cold air from tearing them up, and walked into something cold and solid.

Opening his eyes again, America stared at a man’s clothed chest, rocking away and then towards him. Dashing back, America fell into a dusty road as he realized what he had crashed into. Looking away to the dirt road, America dipped his head to his knees while taking a slow and deep breath.

The body continued to rock, but he did not watch. Something was being malicious and he intended to find that something. But for now, he had to look back up to the corpse swinging slowly and find Russia quickly.

America’s face grew ashen as he realized he was back in that awful dream once again. Damn it! He thought this one had been a different dream with the snow, but no. He rubbed at his head and then walked up the corpse to shut the lifeless eyes that stared from beyond the veil. He rolled his shoulders and America turned to face the lane that would lead to epicenter of the nightmare. And hopefully this time it would lead to Russia too.

Jogging down the street and watching as it opened to a busier town and city center, America passed by the woman and children who sobbed on the corners or in the door frames of the houses. Last night he had tried consoling some of them, but there was nothing he could do. It was a dream and while the screams and sobs sounded real, America knew they weren’t. Hoped they weren’t.

As he continued to rush towards the center of the city, the mixture between ashen and devastated faces and those of the higher nobility became easier to discern. At least this time, America had a small guess to what was going on. He had sneaked a few pages from his book when Russia had stepped outside to take a call from home. If he was right, it was 1662 during one of the bloodier riots he had read about. One thousand people were killed. Shot, hung, or drowned. With a shiver, America continued to look for Russia.

If there was one image that haunted America was seeing the bloated and unrecognizable bodies of those who had drowned. Out West he had seen more that he ever wanted. But that was thinking he didn’t have to spare. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Finally he came about the crowd watching the next set of executions: a line of men staring at their last memories. America was about to turn towards the river to look for Russia when a flash of pale blond hair caught his eyes. America froze; staring in the direction he had seen the glimpse before shoving his way through the crowd and towards where the next line of men waited before the gallows.

The charges were being announced loudly over both jeers and cries. One man began to weep, but America came to a halt as he watched a solitary man stand quietly in line, head bowed and shoulders shaking. America would have thought he was crying had he not watched him kick the legs out from under a guard and nearly rip his way out of the bindings.

Sometimes America forgot how strong Russia was. He jumped the low barrier that separated the prisoners from the crowd, watching violet eyes flash in anger as the soldiers subdued him. A guard cracked his fist over Russia’s face, stopping him from doing anything else. A roar of cheering and screams came from the crowed as the men were hung. America had to hurry up. Russia was in the next group to be executed. America crept near, staying silent as he pulled out the pocketknife from his back pocket.

And then of all the worse luck, two guards tripped over and crashed into him. It had been as if a giant hand had flung them together harshly. America fumbled for the knife as he nearly dropped it, turning around to stare at the guards when they stared back and began yelling at him.

Damn it! America slammed his elbow into the first soldier’s stomach and then tried to reach Russia, if only to let him know he was there and he wouldn’t be hanged. But the soldier grabbed America by his middle and hauled America back until he found himself lying face first in the red dirt, a sword to the back of his neck.

The rest of the people in the nightmare continued to go on, for it was only if America physically touched him that they would notice him. Russia was shoved forward as the new corpses were checked for their pulses and then thrown into a cart. The two soldiers with swords at his neck were yelling something, but all America could hear was buzzing as his blood boiled.

He was _not_ watching Russia be hanged.

America could not dart over to him though, not with the soldiers bearing down over him. Spitting the dirt that had gotten into his mouth, America watched as one of the soldiers called for something, America couldn’t catch what exactly. Everything here sounded so loud and muffled, like a warped cassette tape. America glanced back to Russia.

They had taken down the last body, and the nooses were being re-tied. The ropes swung in the nearly stale air, burning a deep orange as the setting sun began to cast it’s rays upon it. The next seven were pushed forward by the guards and the crowed began to jeer. Several people turned away and slunk back into the shadows the buildings casted, their eyes dark and postures sullen. Russia had nearly bitten the soldier who had tried to remove the scarf around his neck, and a red welt crossed his jaw from the punch he had received. Violet eyes were dark, and America could tell that his jaw was clenched tightly.

Why wasn’t his government protecting him? Didn’t they know he was there? Didn’t his people feel him? America twisted from under the rough hands that pulled him upwards and cracked his own head into the soldier’s jaw, ignoring the pain as he shot off into the crowd. The ruckus that followed behind him must have been from the other soldiers pushing people aside. America ducked low and continued to weave through the spectators looking towards the key to freedom he had spotted before.

Already Russia and the six other men were lined up, the ropes around their necks fitted and the reading of their wrong doings commenced. America could hear the angry shouts grow louder behind him, and a large heavy hand fell on his shoulder to stop him. Snarling, America ripped himself out of the hold and sprinted the last short distance towards the lantern hanging innocently nearby.

His fingers brushed against the thick glass and metal lantern, quickly plucking it off the pole and chucked it onto the wooden platform.

The glass broke and both flame and oil splattered. Immediately, the dry timber caught fire and the crowd withdrew like snakes from an open flame. The cry for water filled the air, but America dashed forward, ignoring how the bright orange flames licked up higher and higher, faster than he expected, and drew out his pocketknife again. He skidded to a stop in front of Russia, sawing through the thick noose that hung around his neck, while darting a look to the soldiers swooping closer. With a last lash at the rope, America split the tip of his thumb open with the knife, but pulled Russia away from danger.

“I’d cut you loose fully, but it seems we’ve got a few admirers,” America said, pointing to the rope that still bound Russia’s wrist behind his back tightly. The soldiers were pulling up behind where the flames had not reached yet. America became pale as he heard the cry of the fire licking the other prisoners, but had to remind himself that it was all _just a dream._ There was nothing he could do.

“Let’s go!” America cried and shoved the other nation forward as they began their mad dash. Russia had looked back, obviously wanting to help those still trapped on the platform, but America pulled his arm harder and navigated through the thick and oily grey smoke that spilled into their faces.

They both paused as a crack of gunfire filled the air alongside the sizzling and popping of the wood around them. America ignored it though and studied their options. It was apparent Russia wasn’t awaking from this dream. Normally contact with him drew him out of a dream within a minute or so. That wasn’t happening here. America had to find a way safely out. So either they could face the soldiers behind them, or the flames that were quickly consuming everything in front of them.

“Don’t worry! I’ve got you.” America nodded to Russia and then pulled on his arm once more as they tried to leap through the flames towards freedom.

The smoke consumed him, screaming and filling his ears and coating his tongue with its acidic touch as his grip on Russia dissolved and he began to burn. His insides were on fire, melting and erupting with the sheer heat. His skin faded to ash, breaking away like so many grains of sand until there was nothing but the black smoke and the screams of others who had been once unable to get away. The screams permeated and ripped though the atoms he had left.

America was shaking as he found himself inside the corridor once again, fingers gripping the cold, smooth floor. He pressed his cheek against the floor and stayed still, breathing softly and kept his eyes shut. _That…_ he groaned and rubbed his head before glaring up at the corridor. _That was awful_. The black doors seemed more numerous suddenly, too great for him to defeat.

As he pushed himself up with shaking arms, a glimmer of hope filled him. The black door beside him was changing slowly from the ominous and vile black that had coated it into a soft gray. Blue eyes gazed at the door, sitting there for minutes until a soft click of a door locking filled the room. America jumped up, rattling the door handle but found there was nothing he could do to get in.

Had he locked it? America rubbed at his brow in though and stood up on quivering legs. He hoped so. At least it would mean all of this was doing something. And maybe, if it was already a soft gray, it would change someday to a white door. A feeble smile crossed his lips, still staring at the door in both confusion and wonder while a rich chuckle bubbled to his lips. He rubbed his arms and glanced down to the blood still dripping from his thumb and a smile across his lips. “I’m the hero. Of course it will be okay.” So what if there were a thousand black doors. He would conquer them all because he loved Ivan and didn’t want to see him hurt.

“I’m going to change it all.” He said to the corridor.

“No. You’re not,” a voice dripping in loathing snarled behind him and the glint of sharp metal was seen before America’s side erupted in sharp pain.


	6. Chapter Six

America woke with a violent lurch while his hand darted to his side, a groan from deep within his throat rumbled from both the shock and the pain. His fingers glistened in the sliver of amber city light that fell into the room and America gasped as he moved, his side erupting with hot pain. He twisted away from where Russia still slept silently to get up and see what was wrong with his side. It felt as if he had been stabbed, but he couldn’t be sure. It had happened too fast for him to see…and just who the fuck had that been behind him?

Staggering to the bathroom, America’s bloodied fingers switched on the light and he paused at the sink to look into the mirror. Pain once again flared as he turned to look at the wound, staring at the gash near his pelvis. It wasn’t too deep, but the amount of blood dripping down his side wasn’t a good sign either. “Motherfucker,” he said to the empty bathroom. The lights seemed too bright, and the blood glistened garishly against his pale skin. Rivulets of blood were already gliding down his calf, racing to his ankle while he grabbed a washcloth and pressed it tightly to his side.

The hotel was going to kill him for the bloodstains, but America just couldn’t summon up even an ounce of care. Instead, as he alternated between holding the towel tightly and peeling it away to look at the gash, his mind obsessed over what had happened. He had been standing in the corridor and then he had been attacked from behind. America had expected something malicious would happen to him at some point, the dreams didn’t like to be messed with, but he hadn’t expected to just suddenly be stabbed.

And Russia wasn’t awake either. It was as if he had been ejected from the dream. America once again darted a glance down to the wound and hissed quietly out of frustration. He took two more towels and sat down in the tub the room had to offer. The white fabric was greedily soaking up his blood, staining first a soft pink until it swelled and became a deep red. The lines on his palm were etched with the dark liquid, leaving behind smeared burgundy fingerprints along the tub’s edge. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling while steadily holding pressure on his side. America huffed, a muted form of a pained laugh, and turned his blue eyes to count the tiles along the bathroom floor. Everything smelled metallic. 

He felt worn and tired, though it was probably due to slogging through all of the caustic dreams more than the blood loss. Even the vividness of the dreams had left him with an ill taste in his mouth. Blue eyes fluttered shut and America simply focused on the air that filled his lungs, humming quietly in relief against the harsh white bathroom lights.

The door swept open and America glanced up to see Russia standing in the doorway looking frantic. Russia’s shoulders were tight with tension and America watched his hand flex on the door handle, white knuckled. Guilt immediately gnawed in the pit of his stomach. It had to have been a jolt to wake up without America and only a stain of blood. Russia was wearing underwear whereas America was still naked and lying in the tub. “Hey,” America said and gave a tired grin.

“Why are you bleeding? What is wrong?” Russia knelt down by the tub, his hand straying to America’s side where he was still holding the bloodied washcloth.

Silently America watched as Russia’s eyes darted and emotion rolled over the normally stoic face. America sat up, taking the cloth away fully and frowning at the bleeding. The blood was slowing down. “I dunno. I’ll be fine though. I was just waiting for it to chill since I don’t have a band-aid on me.” He flipped the relatively still white side over and pressed it tightly on the gash. The blood made it looks worse. It was a simple slit, and wouldn’t need stitches. He’d be sore tomorrow, but okay otherwise. America frowned at seeing Russia’s hand tremble minutely and looked up into panicking violet eyes.

“That needs more than a band-aid. And it does not explain how this happened.” Russia swiped his hand through his hair, not noticing or caring perhaps, that his fingers were tinged with America’s blood. Pale, lithe fingers hovered over the soiled washcloth America held and switched to tracing the tracks of blood that had trailed down his skin and legs. Finally Russia carded his fingers through America’s golden hair and he tilted his head slightly in worry.

America knew how this had to look. Nations didn’t just spontaneously get injuries, unless something horrible had happened. Wars and disasters left cuts and bruises. He shook his head, wishing he had put his glasses on, maybe then he wouldn’t feel so bare under Russia’s gaze. “Could have been a bad twister. It’ll be alright.” he lied. The corners of his eyes were tense and his tongue felt heavy.

America hated lying to Russia, but practice from the Cold War had made it so they slipped out as easily as the blood from the gash on his side. He tried not to lie to the other man, but this was one of those times he was going to have to let it go and just lie. Lie, lie, lie. It left a bad taste in his mouth.

Even with America’s reassurance, there still seemed to be some of that lingering panic lurking from behind Russia’s violet eyes. America leaned forward, pressing his forehead to his with a soft smile. “I promise. It looks worse than it is. It’s already healing anyway. Help me out of the tub?”

“Da.” Russia didn’t move, his eyes flickering about America’s face. Something stirred behind the violet and America used the unsoiled back of his hand to pat Russia’s cheek.

“It looks worse than it is. It’s just bleeding everywhere.” He peeled the cloth away to see that the blood was slowing down.

“Does that not make it worse than it is?” He stood back as America stood up from the tub and went to the sink to wipe away the drying blood. As he turned the tap on and began to wring out the blood, he could feel the blood well up along the cut. Russia was standing next to him, hovering as though he expected America to pass out and crumple to the floor. At that thought, America turned his blue gaze to the older nation through the mirror and mumbled, “You’re making me nervous.”

“You are the one bleeding everywhere.” Russia left the bathroom though and America bent down to remove the burgundy trails of dried blood. It came off easily and he was rinsing out the washcloth once again when Russia returned, bringing Texas with him. America took the glasses, touching Russia’s bare forearm in thanks and returned to removing the blood from his skin. As he watched the pink water drain in the white porcelain sink, America once again thought of the nightmares. He just didn’t get it. How had he been attacked? He hadn’t even been inside a dream. America muttered angrily under his breath, noting he would have to go see England tomorrow and ask what the hell had happened back there. He could have died.

At that thought, America paused in washing his hands, staring blankly down at the white sink. It wasn’t that he wasn’t willing to die, it was just that he hadn’t been expecting it to brush against him so quickly. A hand fell on his shoulder and America turned to look at Russia.

“You look pensive.” The hand rubbed up and down in a soothing motion.

“Nah, nothing but empty space up in there.” America looked down to the angry gash on his side and dabbed at weeping wound. “Nuthin’ to be pensive about.”

Russia looked angry and he gazed at America with hard eyes. “Do not talk like that,” he murmured. He pulled away his hand folded it against his chest.

“Don’t talk like what?” America asked, washing his hands again and placing a clean cloth on his side. He looked up when Russia put pressure on his hand, helping to hold the cloth firmly in place.

“Like you’re worth nothing.” Russia tilted his head again, lips pressed against each other in a thin line, as he seemed to contemplate something. He sighed, relaxing a fraction and nuzzled his lips against America’s temple. He took a slow breath. “Are you alright?” he asked again.

The urge to say ‘I’m fine’ danced on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. He had lied enough already. “A little dizzy. And it hurts like a bitch, but I don’t think it will kill me.” He looked to the mirror, satisfied that the blood was off his waist and legs. “What time is it anyway?”

“Around 5.”

America hummed and slowly walked towards the bathroom door. “Did I wake you?”

Russia paused, his words coming out as a low growl. “Were you planning on not waking me?”

“Well, there wasn’t a reason to freak you out. I told you I’m alright, didn’t I?” He glanced at the bed, staring in amazement that the sheets weren’t covered in blood. There were a few sports and a patch where America had been sleeping, but it was nowhere near anything he had been expecting. When he saw Russia’s angry frown, America put the washcloth down to take the older nation’s face between his palms. Russia’s eyes flickered in the sliver of light creeping in from between the thick hotel curtains, but his face remained stagnant in its frown.

“I promise you, for the last time, if there’s a real problem I will let you know. I’m a big boy now; I can handle a little cut on my side without calling 911. Besides, I’m the hero. I can take care of myself. You shouldn’t worry over me.” America leaned forward and gave a chaste kiss before pulling away to retrieve the washcloth. Russia muttered something unintelligible under his breath and furrowed his hand through his hair.

America picked up the crumpled sheets, and slowly slid under them again. He was about to put Texas back on the stand when he realized Russia was still standing above him, like a stern sentry. “Are you going to read me a bed time story?” he asked cheekily.

Russia snorted and walked around the foot of the bed to climb into his side. “Da. Once upon a time there was the most infuriating man who ever lived. And then he drove me crazy.”

“That’s nice.” America murmured, watching sleepily as Russia pulled the sheets up around their naked torsos. “I like that story.” He yawned and rested his head against Russia’s shoulder. The older nation looped his arm around America’s shoulder, holding him tightly and protectively. Faintly America thought it might not be a good idea to fall asleep after having lost that amount of blood, but with Russia lying close and holding onto him, he really couldn’t imagine any harm befalling him. He fell asleep as Russia placed his hand over Alfred’s, holing onto the washcloth tightly.

**— — —**

America stared tiredly at the corridor, looking down at his blood stained palm. He really couldn’t handle attacking another nightmare right now. He glanced about the rows of doors, walking slowly and let a long sigh escape from his lips. Well, it could be worse. Somehow. Maybe. America looked to one of the white doors nearby, glowing proudly amongst the black and red doors that swarmed it. The door handle felt cool under his hand as he twisted the doorknob open and stepped inside.

A warm breeze brushed past his cheeks, tugging at his hair and clothes. America sat in the shade of an old tree, huffing quietly as he drew his legs up and surveyed the dream from a distance. He didn’t feel like messing around or interrupting it…only if it turned sour. But as America leaned back against the rough bark that scratched through his shirt, he just couldn’t imagine it. Russia’s smile was just so serene.

He was playing with a little girl who was climbing through the tree a few yards away, laughing as she squealed in delight at swinging from the branches. She laughed and let go of the branch she was holding onto to land into Russia’s outstretched arms. She giggled; strawberry blonde hair filled with leaves and flying outwards as he spun he around once and set her to the ground.

“Vanya!” she called out and hopped towards a little brook that separated America and the rest of the dream. Russia followed behind her, looking curious as she squatted down in her dress and put her hands into the water.

“What is it Nastenka?” he asked and America tilted his head to the side, unused to seeing the open and unguarded expression Russia had.

“Where do frogs get money from?” her blue eyes were focused on the clear waters around her fingers.

An amused smile fell on Russia’s lips and he folded his arms, looking to the girl happily. “I don’t know. Where?”

“From the riverbank!” She turned around and flicked the water from her fingers at him and laughed as he began to chase her. America chuckled to himself as Russia nearly tipped over into the small stream as the girl darted over the rocks and jumped back and forth to each side of the grassy embankment.

America had an idea of who it was. Like any country that had a monarchy, the children that came from that line were near and dear to the nation’s heart. Russia of course was no different and America, while he had never met Grand Duchess Anastasia, had always known there had been a soft spot in the man’s heart for the little impish girl. Even near a century later, there was a shadow that passed over his violet eyes when she was mentioned.

But the delight on his face was rare for even America to see and he curled up under the tree, ignoring how his side throbbed with the movement and watched the two splash each other while laughing in the golden light of summer.


	7. Chapter Seven

America had fallen asleep during the meeting. All of the excitement and running around through Russia’s dreams had worn him out both physically and mentally. Even before he had been rummaging through Russia’s dreams, America had been staying up late to watch and see if Lithuania had really been telling the truth. So it was no surprise that he had finally shut down, too weary to really handle anything else and fell, literally, face first into the meeting table.

Apparently his body had needed the sleep, for even with England spewing curses heatedly like a boiling kettle and Russia worriedly shaking him, nothing caused America to stir. And because of this deep, coma-like sleep, he was now lying on the floor being monitored by other nations until they deemed he was fine.

“What do I have to do to prove I’m okay?” America asked, his words short with the temper that was slowly building up. He met Russia’s gaze, noting the frown and worried violet eyes, before looking at his brother who was strategically kneeled next to him, ready to pin America down if he tried to get up.

“Until we’re sure you’re not going to keel over, alright?” Canada shifted his weight on his knees, leaning back into a sitting position. “Then you can go back to being an idiot.”

“Thanks.” He was tempted to roll his eyes, but sighed and petulantly folded his arms. He was fine. The cut on his side was tender and hot, but healing. The only other thing that hurt was the bone above his eye from where his glasses had smashed into his face against the table. Really, America was just tired. He felt as if someone had dug into his body, scooping and ladling out everything; leaving his bones hollow and replacing it with a dry ache. With a small sigh, aimed at telling everyone hovering around him just how stupid this all was, he turned to Russia who had been strangely quiet. There was a dark look in his gaze and something quivered behind his strangely blank violet eyes. Everything about him looked flat and dull, like his vitality had been shaken out of him. America blinked, sitting up in alarm.

Immediately a hand shoved him down, pressing him tightly to the ground and America hit his head against the blue carpeted floor. Coffee and dirt filled his senses as he rubbed at his hair, glaring at his brother. Canada simply returned the look flatly. Russia’s eyes darted to the other North American nation before glancing back at America. “Are you alright?” he asked again, the only sentence he had uttered in the past twenty minutes.

“I swear on Washington’s grave, I am absolutely fine. Can I get up now?”

“No,” came the collective answer from France, England, and Canada. France was sitting in one of the conference chairs, looking sporadically between the doors and to where America was sprawled on the ground. Near him, England was pacing back and forth, snapping at any of the other nations who had come back to ask how America was doing. The five of them were alone in the room, as Germany had called for an early end.

“Maybe you’re dehydrated,” France offered, shifting in the seat to rest his arms along the black chair’s back.

“ ‘M not dehydrated. I had a large coffee this morning.” America began to tap his fingers against his stomach, trying to pass both the time and the annoyance from being forced to stay still on the floor.

“That’s all?” Russia asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Blue eyes looked up, trying to understand just why the older man seemed so quiet, and at the same time, jittery.

“That could be it. It’s four in the afternoon,” Canada said and finally removed his hand from America’s chest. Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, he sat down on the floor and adjusted the slacks to his black suit.

“Brilliant theory, Sherlock. Why not just give me a glass of water then and let me be on my way?”

“For once in you life, shut your mouth and let us make sure you’re fine,” England snapped, stowing his cell phone in his breast pocket. His hair was sticking up in tufts from the numerous amounts of time he had furrowed his hand through the short wheat colored locks. America thought he looked a bit like a startled cockatoo and bit down on his lip to stop from laughing.

“Alfred, please.” It was only two words. So simple: a noun and an adverb, and yet he knew the deeper meaning behind Russia’s words. _You were bleeding last night. I don’t know what’s going on. Stop making trouble. We’re just trying to help. What’s really wrong? What aren’t you telling me?_ All the questions materialized into his mind, sweeping through his consciousness and leaving a burning trail of guilt behind.

_I’m doing it all for you._

_Because I love you._

But there was no reason to say all these words, or voice anything. All it would do is complicate things. There was no reason to make Russia worried, and America knew his lover; he would be angrier than anything that he had invaded his dreams, even if it was for Russia’s own sake. But there was a dark sliver of dread that he would have to tell Russia and that he would make him stop, because now he had to know what had happened last night.

Nothing should have touched him outside the dreams. The corridor was supposed to act like a barrier, to separate the dreams and to keep them from melding. Now that America thought about it, that last part didn’t work so well as the dreams swelled and ebbed and changed like a stormy sea. The corridor was supposed to regulate an archaic type of order, rather than just drifting along like a piece of driftwood in a black sea and fighting every monster that charged him.

America pressed the base of his palms harshly against his eyes, watching the whorls of colors that spun from his retinas. His phone vibrated against his leg and he opened blue eyes to stare at the bland ceiling and the harsh white florescent lights. They buzzed like white noise and as he adjusted Texas he rubbed his temples. America could feel a migraine coming on from the myriad of questions from the unknown.

“How about this, because this is getting ridiculous. I’ll just go lie down in my room and one of you can make sure I’m alive every hour or so. Either that or I’m just up and leaving,” America finally said. And, if he wanted to, he could simply overpower them and stroll out as if nothing had happened. But he didn’t want it to come to that and so he continued to lie on the floor in exasperation.

Russia looked up to the other nations and let a small quiet sigh past his lips. “I will make sure he does not do anything stupid.”

England looked down and toed the carpet with a scowl. “Fine. But I don’t want to hear it when you feel like shit tomorrow.”

“Love you too, England.” America sat up and waved his brother’s hand away, hopping up and brushing the dust from his suit. Russia still gazed at him warily and France had an unreadable expression as well. All together, they were making America feel claustrophobic for some reason. He glanced over at the island nation. “That reminds me, I need to talk to you.”

England nodded slowly and with a sigh, his shoulders sagged. “I had a feeling you might.”

At this America could feel Russia’s gaze intensity, uncomfortably scrutinizing him. He waved away the curious look his brother was giving him and said flippantly, “It’ll only take a minute.”

“You should be resting, not working,” Russia muttered, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

America turned slightly and gave him a small smile. “I’m good. See? I’m just tired and I’ll be out in a minute.” He had to talk to England to find out what was going on.

Russia gave him a hard look and glanced to the ceiling, muttering something under his breath before he shook his head. “I will wait outside then.”

America watched as Russia walked out of the conference room leaving England and America alone. Canada and France had already walked out and now the large room seemed too bright and desolate. The rattle of a chair being pushed echoed through the room and America turned around to see England shoving a chair in his direction. “Sit down before you hurt yourself,” he muttered, green eyes dark. He waited until America was seated and nodded. “Now what do you have to say?”

America blinked, trying to grab hold of one thought out of the thousand that droned and buzzed through his mind. “Something odd happened with the dreams.”

England leaned against the dark conference table, passing his phone from hand to hand slowly. “Like what, exactly?”

“Right, so you know how the dreams are meant to be through the doors, like in the corridor thing you said? Yeah, well they’re not staying behind the doors, I think. Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re not. It’s neutral, right? The corridor?”

England nodded and put his phone into his pocket. “Yes, it is. It’s the architecture to the manipulation of the energy. The dreams in this case.”

“Yeah. Okay, so why did I get attacked in there?”

“You we’re most likely not in the corridor then, if you were attacked by a dream.” England looked down to his shoes, scratching the ridge of his eyebrow.

“I was in the corridor damn it! I thought you said the dreams were supposed to be sequestered behind those doors? They’re not!” America hissed quietly and leaned forward.

America looked up from his hands that he had laced together in his lap and tilted his head at England’s odd look. The suit he was wearing felt tight and he shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to get more comfortable. “What?” he finally asked.

“You used ‘sequestered’ correctly.”

America’s face heated up and he shot up from the chair, ignoring how dizzy he felt and the spots of colored light that dotted his vision. “Forget sequestered damn it! What the fuck is going on?”  
England narrowed his eyes slightly and shifted his weight. “Just what exactly happened?”

“I was sitting on the floor, or something, and I stood up to enter another door when I got stabbed by this dude! I’m fine, it was a small cut.” America amended when he saw England’s posture stiffen.

“Someone attacked you from behind in the corridor?” England questioned, looking out one of the hotel windows to the sunny Boston afternoon.

“Yeah. Which is why I want to know what the fuck is that all about.” America paused, glancing to the doors and sat down. His voice lowered to a whisper and he muttered, “I was doing fine, I thought I was making progress. I mean, most of the dreams weren’t good, but it was getting better…and now…”

“It was a nightmare. I know what you’re saying, but it’s simply not possible for it to be a nightmare,” England cut America off and turned to him, his green eyes hard. “It is only guess though.” He paused, lithe fingers tapping slowly against the wood as he frowned, deep thought. “I think… Well, no. It sounds ridiculous”

“How ridiculous?” America edged.

England hesitated, green eyes flickering up before he recoiled into his own thoughts. “I thought the wording was in reference to a barrier, but it had the ability to translate as ‘guard’. Ingram’s Theory of Bodily Consciousness, which you’ll remember is what I used as a guide in the curse’s design, had a section about consciousness guarding itself. If the subconscious, which is what was creating the dreams in the first place…. the source in a sense…it that recognizes and targeted a threat, it would alert the consciousness’ defenses. This defense would try to neutralize the threat.”

“Neutralize the threat.” His lungs felt tight.

“Yes, it seems this defense, the guard, sees you as a threat.”

America stared at him and then to the carpet where he had been lying earlier. “Yep. That does sound crazy.”

“Listen here,” England stood up from the table and stared down at the younger nation. “It must be a strong emotion to be directing the subconscious if it is specifically attacking you. I don’t know if the emotion is being disturbed by you or if it is about…No, I shouldn’t guess if I don’t have any substantial claim. I will look into this.” Arthur’s fingers tightened around his phone, becoming white knuckled. “America, you have to be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.” America waved his hand.

“Alfred, promise me that you’ll be careful.” England’s voice was low and America looked back up to meet his gaze. A few seconds passed and America gave him a nod, quickly followed by a brilliant smile. “No need to worry though, England. As if anything could take down this hero.”

Shaking his head, England stowed his phone away and picked up his briefcase. The black case swung out and gently tapped against America’s knees. “Just don’t be the brick you normally are. Russia is probably glowering at the door by now anyway and you should go rest.”

“Will do.” America stood up, slower this time, and walked out with England with his own briefcase in hand. The corridor looked dark compared to the brightly lit room, and America blinked a few times to adjust his eyes. Russia was standing across from the doors, violet eyes staying only on America as he stalked forward and put a hand on Russia’s shoulder. England glanced once at the two of them and then walked away down the long hall to the lobby elevators.

“Thanks for waiting, babe.” He tilted his head and brushed a lock of pale blond hair to the side, still feeling that unease from earlier. It was disconcerting to have Russia be so quiet to him. “You alright?”

“I am fine. I am not the one who woke up bleeding last night and passed out during a conference.” He pressed his cheek into America’s open palm and stared down at the younger man.

Ah. So that was it. A sad sort of smile curled on America’s lips and he ran his fingers through the short hair again. “My room or yours?”

“Yours,” Russia replied slowly and he pulled gently at America’s arm to lead him to the elevators. “Your room is darker this time of day.”

“Hm. Intent on getting me to bed?”

“I am intent on getting you to sleep,” Russia murmured as they walked, nearly touching each other’s shoulder. America glanced up at him and then to the elevators in the back of the lobby.

They said little more, but the silence wasn’t frigid. Rather, it was warm and comfortable and as they came to America’s hotel door, he could sense the unease melting away from Russia. He wanted to run his hands over his shoulders and down Russia’s back to drain the rest of the tension away, but he knew that the tension was really his fault. So the younger nation sighed as he opened his hotel door and walked silently into the dim room.

The black case was chucked onto the bed and immediately America loosened his tie, looking out to the Boston skyline glowing in sunlight. Russia walked behind him and drew the curtains shut, throwing the room into cold blue shadows.

“I was admiring the view,” America muttered and pulled off his suit jacket.

“It is not going anywhere. You need to sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I was planning to.”

America paused in unbuckling his belt, the metal clanging loudly in the silence. Blue eyes turned to the floor as he slid the leather through the belt loops and put it near his discarded jacket. America sat on the bed to remove his black shoes, glancing up as Russia took off his blue suit jacket and unbuttoned his cuffs. Glancing to the clock, glowing 4:56 in soft green, he quickly flipped on the radio and turned the dial slightly as he searched through the stations.

An old song began to croon slowly through the radio and America’s fingers paused, glancing to the ground before looking up at Russia who was undoing his own belt. Russia paused and his eyes flickered with recognition in the weak light that had managed to seep through the curtain cracks. “Ah,” he said and a smile tugged at his lips. “I have not heard that song in a long time.”

America pulled his hand away from the radio, rocking slightly with the slow melody. “Unchained Melody.” He swiped at his jaw, and took off Texas.

“It was the first song we danced to,” Russia said.

“You remember,” America replied, and the grin took over his face as the warm bubbles of memory filled his chest.

Russia snorted as a response. “You punched me in the face afterwards.”

“Hey. It was near the end of the Cold War. It was complicated.” America glanced down at the clock again, blurry without his glasses, shaking his head and stood. Russia watched intently as the younger man took three steps forwards and held out his hand, taking Russia by the waist.

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing.” The refrain to the song began to flow from the tinny speakers, and America chuckled under his breath. “I promise I wont punch you or step on your toes…much.” He took Russia’s cold hand and began to rock back and forth in a mockery of a waltz.

The amused and adoring look Russia gave made America’s heart flutter and he smiled warmly as Russia took the lead and there was laughter in his voice as he said, “You were always terrible at dancing. Feet like lead”

“Well, sorry. No one took the time to train me how to dance for royal balls and stupid stuff like that. And I’m not that bad…you’re just like freaking Fred Astaire.” America leaned his head on Russia’s shoulder and neck, enjoying the melody as it played slowly.

_And time goes by so slowly_

_And time can do so much_

_Are you still mine?_

America gave Russia a kiss: for the dance, as an apology and thankfulness that they were together. The song came to a close quickly after and Russia pressed his cheek against America’s head, gave a squeeze for a hug and turned the radio off. The melody still echoed through America’s head as he sat down on his side of the bed and lay on top of the covers.

Russia lay down beside him after toeing off his shoes, pulling the covers up and tugging them out from under America’s body. The younger nation gave a sleepy grunt, halfway between falling asleep and being lazily awake. “Sorry I freaked you out,” America murmured as he closed his eyes and yawned.

Russia let out a soft gust of breath. “Go to sleep, Alfred.”

“ ‘Kay.” And America rolled over so his chin tucked into Russia’s shoulder and fell asleep.

Russia must have fallen asleep a while after America since all he remembered was black. Yet it was warm and comforting, like sleeping in a large blanket that smelled like chamomile and wood smoke. What could have been hours or years, America felt his consciousness emerge from the veil of sleep and he was back to standing in the corridor.

He sleepily looked around, feeling somewhat invigorated, but a cold chill of caution crept down his spine. He had been attacked here. America had bled here. There was nothing stopping that from happening a second time. America looked at all of the doors and frowned, there were fewer red doors now, but more black. The white doors looked like small specks of hope amongst the sea of black door and his stomach twisted. They looked feeble and brittle and America began to pat his pockets. 

“Hope I have somethin’ this time,” he muttered. All that turned up was a packet of salt and a paperclip and he studied them carefully in his palm. The salt was from McDonalds. He must have been hungry or something. “Alright. Let’s see what these bad boys can do.” As he twisted the door handle open of the nearest black door, he shivered at the deathly silence and stepped into the void.


	8. Chapter Eight

The needle disappeared into the white fabric, dragging crimson thread behind it as Ukraine embroidered the cuff of a sleeve in a complicated pattern of leaves. America rubbed at his nose, the cold already biting at his skin despite the fact that he was standing in the kitchen. The whole room was damp and the chill wormed its way through his skin and settled achingly in his bones. The black stove next to him billowed out more smoke than heat and he rubbed at watering eyes, watching the two silent nations in front of him.

Sitting rigidly in a chipped wooden chair, Ukraine kept her eyes focused on the delicate leaves her needle was slowly blooming to life. Eyes narrowed and lips pressed to a thin line, she did not look up at her younger brother sitting across the small table. Instead, she continued to stare at the white linen in her hands and the small needle in her fingers.

America had been standing next to the stove for a good fifteen minutes, trying to get the most of the heat as he could in the frigid room, and the normally jovial woman had yet to even acknowledge that Russia was there. It was starting to bother America that she was so quiet. At the same time, he continued to glance about the room, looking for the monster that would make this dream worth being a black door. There were no screams of fear outside, no bodies lying on the floor, and there were no dangers lurking in the shadows. So far all it looked like was he might get a mild case of frostbite on his nose, but that wasn’t anything compared to what America had seen in the other dreams.

He shuffled closer to the stove while holding a cough in from the smoke that leaked out. At the same time Russia stopped looking at his sister and to the window where his face was reflected in the dark and empty windowpane. 

“I didn’t think you still did that anymore,” Russia murmured, still looking away from Ukraine and out at the blue night.

America watched as her fingers tightened around the cloth under the table for a fraction, before slowly pulling the needle through to make a small petal. “Is there something wrong with that?” Her voice sounded tight, like a thread pulled too thin.

Russia’s eyes flickered towards her and back to the window. America shifted closer to the stove again, finally feeling the heat from the wet wood that was burning. He watched as Russia tapped the table once, and turned back Ukraine. “I thought you believed in science now, not fairytales anymore. Clothes can’t protect from evil.”

Her fingers slowed and finally Ukraine looked up, her normally soft blue eyes frigid and icy. America stared at her. The look in her eyes was something he had never seen before and suddenly he wondered if there was something lurking in her that was the cause for the dream being worthy of a black door. He stood a little taller, forgetting the warmth of the stove and continued to watch.

“Sometimes I feel the need to protect myself against the evil that has been close by.” Ukraine gazed at her brother and then to the stove, making Alfred hold his breath as she frowned at the grate where the yellow flame wavered and hissed. She blinked slowly and went back to working on the small petals of a new flower, brushing aside a strand of blonde hair.

A shadow seemed to pass over Russia’s face and Alfred walked over to him, standing behind him and looking out of the window to see if there was any danger outside. He had yet to interact with Russia or anything in the dream, so neither knew he was there. There was a part of America that wanted to drag a chair to the table and start cracking some jokes to lighten the air. He had always thought Ukraine looked pretty when she laughed, not like how she was now: dark, grey, and wan. There was a brittle quality to her and Alfred rubbed his hands together as Russia shifted, lounging into the wood chair and rubbing his index finger against the grain of the table, designing invisible patterns and writing unknown words.

“You understand I am helping you,” Russia said calmly, looking at his sister as she continued to pull the red thread though the cloth. He touched the scarf looped around his neck and rested his cheek in his calloused palm. America walked back to the smoke, seeking a little warmth as he brandished his palms by the small cherry red embers. The dark smoke made his eyes water and he looked back over to the kitchen table.

“I understand.” Ukraine put her project down, still not meeting her brother’s gaze. Instead she looked to the darker part of her home where her living room was. “I understand,” she repeated quietly and America turned his gaze back to her and she looked up, knuckles white as she shivered and swallowed as if her throat was too tight. “You bastard.”

Russia stopped tracing patterns into the wood and frowned. “What?”

“You.” America continued to watch as she narrowed her eyes icily, though her hands shook minutely.

Russia folded his arms, looking bored. “I know you are in doubt, sister, but it is for the good of everyone.”

“Don’t you dare lecture me.”

“I am merely trying to show you that this is all for the greater good. You will see in due time, and you will be happy.”

America turned away from the stove and stuck his fingers into his pocket, recognizing the impersonal tone Russia was using. Ukraine’s face was slowly going from an ashen white to fierce burgundy. Her hands shook noticeably from under the table. “Killing my children is for the greater good?” Her voice had risen, though it shook with emotions close to lashing out.

Furrowing his hand though his hair, America gazed at Russia wondering if he should intervene. Still, there was something puzzling as to why this had been a dream behind a black door, especially compared to other things he had seen the past few nights. He rubbed the corner of his eye in though and continued to watch silently in the shadows of the kitchen.

“We are trying to become something great, sister. We are wiping away the stain of capitalism from the people and the land.” Russia leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands together as he gazed evenly at the woman across from him. “We are building, and with the factories comes the need for grain. Something you’ve been falling behind in lately.” He sounded disappointed, like a parent chastising a child who was being belligerent.

Ukraine bristled, her back going straight. “You’re killing them all.”

“I am trying to collect the people together. I’m unifying them. The individual doesn’t care for the future we’re creating.” Violet eyes shut briefly and Russia rubbed at his jaw once.

Ukraine stared at him furiously and Alfred took a step closer to the table. “Don’t you dare, Ivan. You are killing my people! My children! They are starving to death because of the grain you need! Your demands are too great.” She was shouting now, and she swallowed several times when her voice began to quiver.

Ukraine looked to the living area again, quietly getting up from the table and looking through the doorway. Her frame faded into the shadows and Russia’s violet gaze tracked her movements until she came back into the kitchen. America watched her move to the stove, an angry sound coming from her throat as Russia made an impatient gesture for her to sit down again.

“The demands are set to push towards a greater future.” His voice was flat and he looked to the dark night outside the window.

“Your demands are why I have six orphans living with me now!” her eyes flickered to the living area again. “You killed their parents and now you’ve doomed them to die too. People have disappeared and you wont tell me where they have gone. They suddenly disappear in the middle of the night. You have reduced my children, my people, to nothing. And they fight and kill for the nothing.”

Russia looked up at his sister and said dully, “Then they have been reduced to their true character.”

The flash of metal was the only thing that warned Alfred of the knife Ukraine was suddenly brandishing and he held out a hand in defense. He watched as Russia slowly stood up from the table and came to his full intimidating height.

“You shoot children for trying to live! Yeva was eight years old and she was shot yesterday for taking a handful of grain.” She stopped her yelling for a second and wiped her eyes quickly, taking in a short choked breath through clenched teeth. “My people aren’t living, Russia. You’ve condemned them all to die. Like animals. They are all dying. And it is all your fault.”

He took a step towards her, ignoring the knife in her hands. America hovered near him as he saw the stirrings of darkness behind the violet eyes he had come to know so well. But they weren’t really Russia’s eyes. How could Russia’s eyes have such hatred and disgust aimed at his sister? As America edged closer to Ukraine, he knew that he was looking back into the eyes of his enemy.

“Russia…” America said, knowing he couldn’t hear him.

Ukraine dropped the knife, her eyes darting over her younger brother’s face and down to the floor. She clenched her eyes and her lips twisted into a grimace.

“You cannot put this blame on me, Ukraine. You have been falling behind in your grain quotas and so your people are suffering for now, until the future has been made brighter.” His frown deepened as he grabbed her shoulders sharply. He said lowly, “And I don’t like how you are talking to me.”

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“You have to understand.”

“I hate you,” she said and spat at his face.

Ukraine fell to the ground as Russia cracked his hand against her face and America dove for her, touching her shoulders and then her cheek as he tried to assess the damage. Her eyes stayed closed, though her eyelashes continued to flutter and she took uneven breaths. There were small noises coming from the other room.

“What the fuck, Russia?” America growled up at the looming man, watching as the nation looked away from his hand and then down to America. Something flickered across Russia’s face and he weakly said, “America.”

The dream faded as the starting cries bubbled slowly from Ukraine. And for a moment America stayed kneeling on the floor and his fingers supported air. Then, as he took off Texas to rub at his eyes and trying to wish away the oily and slick knot that was sitting heavily in his stomach, he looked up at where the sky would be and sighed. Once he slid Texas back on though, he found himself staring at himself. 

America blinked and realized it was not his reflection as the image of him moved and scowled at a paper in his hands. Rubbing his fingers against his temple, he sighed and continued to watch his dream image fuss over a folder of documents before glaring at the door angrily. The room smelled like stale coffee and orange peels when America walked away from the small windows of the office he was standing in, frowning as he looked up at the humming florescent light glowing above him. Rustling papers scraping against each other filled the otherwise quiet room and his image looked up at the open window behind America’s back.

As he looked into blue eyes, America knew the person sitting in the chair at the dark wood table was only an image, for there wasn’t a single time he could remember looking in a mirror and seeing such hate and rage reflected back at him.

America’s shoulders felt heavy, as if two large hands were trying to push his body through the scuffed tile floor and further until he was buried deep into the cold earth. He hunched his shoulders and took a slow breath. It was like trying to breath on a humid day. The air felt thick and his head pounded with the growing pressure, but He couldn’t look away from those blue eyes. His own eyes that weren’t his eyes. The image’s eyes, not his. It was as if all his attention was being dragged to the image sitting quietly; a black hole crushing him with the blue gaze.

But when America tilted to the right, suddenly dizzy as if starved for air, the image looked away and back to the door. Gasping, America stumbled back towards the window and pressed a clammy hand to his head as the rage that echoed through those blue eyes now seared painfully into his mind. Finally, after resting his hand against the white wall of the small room and standing back up straight, he warily looked back at his image. The papers had been stowed away and with a voice that made America wince because of its closeness, the image said, “Fucking Commie can’t even be bothered to arrive on time when he’s going to fuck me over.” The image crossed his arms after fiddling with the glasses perched on his nose and flashed a soulless grin at the empty room.

America teetered on his toes, feeling ill at seeing his own features so distorted by a rage that burned behind those blue eyes. And there was a manic edge to his smile as the door clicked open. America and the image both looked up, America quietly groaning at seeing Russia walk in while the image did nothing but wait with an air of boredom until the other nation was sitting down.

Frowning, America circled carefully around the dark brown table and stood near the door, leaning against it until it clicked shut once again. Ignoring and looking away from his image, America instead observed Russia and waited to see if he would also feel the pressure. Instead though, Russia looked cool and even leaned back in his chair as he folded his hands in his lap. Neither said anything and America watched them carefully, waiting for even the smallest sign of pain on Russia’s face.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Russia said softly, in the same saccharine tone he used against his enemies and America blinked in confusion, pushing away from the door.

“I think you know,” the image of America hissed, leaning forward in his chair. His fingers were clenched tightly for a second before releasing slowly and splayed flat on the table. Russia’s violet eyes flickered down before matching the images’ cool gaze and locking.

America brushed past Russia, walking back over to the windows in the small room. Sometimes it was hard to remember that all of this was a dream. That the warmth radiating from Russia’s body wasn’t real and that the room was nothing more than some neurons firing electrical impulses and creating the reality America was staring at. It was hard to stop himself from placing a hand on the other nation’s shoulders or run his fingers through the short hair. Instead, America looked out of the window and waited to see how the dream would turn.

“I know,” Russia admitted.

“Then you know what’ll happen.” The image rubbed his jaw and America continued to watch the strained meeting through the reflection of the glass. Outside, the sky was blue without a single cloud to stain it. Russia simply nodded and continued to wait for America’s image to continue speaking. “Then get your fucking missiles out of Cuba.”

“Then you remove your blockade and promise not to invade Cuba,” the older nation countered breezily, tilting his head as the image pressed his lips together thinly and tapped a slow and drawn out beat on the table.

A minute passed and finally he sighed, muttering, “I knew this was hopeless.”

“We have not even discussed anything.” Russia was frowning and America turned, looking at the table while rubbing his neck.

“Are you going to remove your nuclear missiles from Cuba? No. Then what’s there to discuss?”

“You could remove your missiles. Turkey is not an exotic location to me, America.” Russia continued to remain relaxed and removed from the conversation in appearance, but his shoulders were rigid and America could see a tightness in his eyes. And though their conversation sounded pleasant, there was a darkness that surrounded it: A serious note to it that was toxic and making the air thick.

America continued to watch in interest as the image of him grit his teeth. Finally, with a jolt he stood up and leaned forward, closing the distance between them and breathed angrily, “You know that’s not going to happen. I can’t be weak to a Communist like you.” He spat out ‘Communist’ as if it left a horrid taste and stood up and stood stoically before smiling to himself. “I guess the only thing that’s left is to pick a date.”

At this Russia looked up baffled, asking slowly, “A date?”

America moved forward again, the rage America had seen so pronounced suddenly gone and replaced with a very calm smile. “For the last day on earth in this lovely year of 1963. If you’re not gonna compromise, and I’m sure as hell not… well, then I suppose it’s time to say good bye.” He paused, stopping from walking to the door and added, “Well, at least that’s the way it looks now.”

“America,” Russia said and America could feel his heart twist tightly. The room began to melt away, water cascading down the wall and running the paint of the world into whorls of multicolor pools. America stepped away from the table, watching it melt into the floor and the lights dim. He could smell smoke– putrefying and bitter– making what was left of the room hazy as if there was a grey film over everything. Russia was standing across from America’s image, no longer displaying a mask of aloofness. Instead, he looked confused as the images’ smile grew, slowly snaking into something more sinister.

The image sauntered across the distance between him and Russia, a gleam in his eyes that made America tense his hand and still. America continued to glower at his own image, watching as the bomber jacket began to fade from its old familiar worn brown to a deep black, ashes fluttering behind him as the clothes slowly morphed into a modern streamline suit. Russia was standing still in the abyss of black and blinked when the image stopped right in front of him, nearly chest to chest.

“Don’t you get it, Russia?” the image asked, still smiling but spitting the other nation’s name as if it were vile. “You ‘n me, we’re God’s in this world. And we’re opposites. Night and day. Life and death. Such opposites, in fact, that we’re destined for each other.”

“Destined,” Russia repeated cautiously, his hand lifting minutely. Violet eyes still were filled in confusion, but there was still a trusting element there instead of the anger from earlier. America continued to watch every twitch and shift of his image, a slowly growing bubble of worry expanding coldly in his gut.

Lips wobbling, his smile suddenly became razor sharp as he grabbed Russia’s wrist tightly. “Destined,” the image confirmed. With a giggle the image rolled his head to the side. “Destined to kill each other. To shake this wretched earth until there’s nothing left but radiated rocks and scorched earth. Until every creature is decaying and every person is gone. Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.” He giggled. “I guess England had some writers who got it.”

Russia moved to rip his hand back, and growled when the image refused to let him even inch away. America stared at them, and lunged closer. He stared as they stayed the same distance away and broke out into a sprint, trying to put himself an inch closer to Russia standing alone in the black abyss. “Fuck!” he swore loudly. The image chuckled at Russia’s disgusted look and carded his hand through the frozen nation’s hair. “What’s wrong, babe?”

“Get away from me America. There’s something wrong with you.”

“Wrong with me?”

“You are insane.” Again Russia tried to rip his hand away.

“Aw, you’re sweet. Y’ know? But I’m not the crazy one. You wanted that fifty years ago.”

“Nyet.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” America’s image admonished playfully, “You wanted me dead. You wanted to see me ripped apart– to see me crippled in pain until I was brought down to my knees.” He patted Russia’s cheek at seeing the horror there. “But you couldn’t do that fifty years ago because you didn’t want me to bat that pain right back to you. You couldn’t stomach it. And you know, I thought that it was because you liked me at first. Maybe even loved.”

America continued to run, nearly spitting at how he couldn’t get closer. Russia continued to stare at America’s image horrified.

“But of course, that’s idiotic. You can’t ever trust me and I can’t ever trust you. We’re beautifully opposite and we’re destined to kill each other.” America growled when the image looked as if he was about to lean and kiss Russia, whispering, “To rip each other’s hearts out and burn them to ash.”

And suddenly Russia doubled over, and America felt his throat constrict as he saw a gleam of a knife stained in blood and nearly wailed as Russia fell to the floor and instantly the dream began to spin. The wind was hot and shoved his hair into his eyes, making them water. And before the world disintegrated, America glared furiously at his image that had hurt Russia, and watched as he wiped off the blood with his tie, smiling wickedly at America and waved the knife in glee.

And before he could breathe to let out a furious string of curses and swears, threatening to rip his own image apart, to rip his own face to shreds, he was breathing the stale and stagnant air of the corridor, digging his nails into the ground. There was something sickening, different from all the other horrors he had seen in the other nightmares, about watching himself attack Russia. He was supposed to be the one Russia trusted and turned to when something was wrong.

But in his dreams he wasn’t. He was his enemy.

America got up, tensing his fingers in the ebb and flow of both anger and crushing sadness. His own breath felt heavy like lead. For a minute America paced while walking past several different doors and rubbing at his nose. He looked up at the dark ceiling, tonguing the sharp points of his teeth before glancing back at the doors. His blood always boiled at the thought of Russia hurt.

A sound echoed through the empty corridor and America twisted around, staring into the darkness of the seemingly never-ending hall. The hair on his arms raised and a chill vibrated down his spine as he thought he saw something move in the darkness. The healing wound on his side throbbed, as if remembering and warning America to be careful. America watched carefully, ready to lunge at anything that presented itself.

Minutes flashed by, maybe even an hour, and America relaxed and rubbed at the nape of his neck. He must be hearing things. He thought he had heard a whisper of a laugh, but it had to be his imagination since there was nothing in the hall. Instead, America turned his back and started to wander in the opposite direction, looking for the next door to go through.

Rhythmic thudding caught his ears and America looked curiously at a black door on his left. It seemed to pulse as it emitted the soft thumps, strangely giving off a soft red glow. That probably should have sent him running in the other direction seeing how it was probably bad that a door was both pulsating and glowing, but instead America let out a hefty sigh and pulled on the smooth and warm door handle, entering the surprisingly bright dream.


	9. Chapter Nine

Alfred hummed a cobbled together tune, watching the surroundings of the dream carefully as he found himself strolling through all too familiar halls where they held their meetings. America paused, furrowing his fingers through his golden hair and blinked as he watched England walk closer, grumbling under his breath. He could smell the waft of tea and the faint odor of burnt foods as he swished by, making it feel like he was really back in one of the many meeting buildings and all the nightmares were dreams years away.

And then a laugh came from behind him and it was like a breath of fresh air. The deep richness of that chuckle acted like a balm, and America turned around to see Russia walking down the hall while pulling at the edge of his scarf– as though to hide the smile blooming on his face. Heart warmed, it took the younger man a minute to recognize that he was looking at his own image once again.

This time though, there was no anger boiling behind blue eyes. Like gazing at a film from far away, America watched himself animatedly wave his hands, smiling and poking the older nation’s arm. Russia was shaking his head and America’s image grinned. America was still guarded though, and remained tense until his image and Russia walked closer and he could see into familiar blue eyes.

He relaxed instantly, knowing that look in his image’s eyes. It was what America felt inside everyday, sparking up joyously and spreading across his face. It was the warmth that enveloped his body, chasing away any coldness the world injected into his blood.

America leaned against the wall, watching the two walk by, and felt a small smile tug at his lips. With Russia he was himself. He could be Alfred and Russia could be Ivan; two people at their most basic core, rebuilding together to make something better and stronger. It was nice to see the dream at least hinted at that, rather than the psychopathic version of himself he had just seen. America frowned and shifted.

Biting at his lip, America pushed off the wall and treaded close behind Russia, reminding himself that there was a reason this dream wasn’t pleasant. It was a black door after all. The younger nation continued to listen to the conversation and looked around the hallways for any shadow that might be lurking. But everything was tranquil and America rubbed at the back of his neck. His image winced slightly and put his hand to his side, an echo of an injury America currently bore. 

“Are you all right?” Russia asked, his voice lowering and his step slowing down.

“I’m fine.” America watched his image flash a smile and give a thumbs-up. He folded his arms and studied the image carefully. 

“America…”

“Really, I’m fine. “ His image gave a huff of air in amused annoyance. “I told you, for the…like…trillionth time, it looked worse than it was. Stop being so pensive, ‘kay?” he slung an arm over Russia’s shoulders and gave a small peck on the cheek. Russia continued to frown and batted away America’s image’s attempt to pinch his cheeks and force the frown into a smile.

America glanced down to the floor. It seemed Russia had been more concerned about the cut than he had let on. He snorted as the thought of having to strip for him and prove that the cut was fine flashed across his mind. Blue eyes flickered back to Russia as the man carded a gloved hand through his pale blond hair, shaken out of the daydreams that had started to form.

“You seem pale today,” Russia said.

“Eh, I haven’t had my third burger of the day yet.”

America’s lips turned upwards in a small smile as Russia smiled as well and tried to futilely explain that burgers weren’t the cause of paleness, nor were they any good for his health. America continued to watch, not knowing what to do in the dreams without the appearance of an obvious enemy. Already in the past two dreams he had simply watched as Russia’s heart broke and crumbled with memory of cruelty to his sister and America’s apparent psychotic betrayal. He didn’t want to see it break again.

“I have some reports that I must work on this afternoon, but after that I am free,” Russia said, smiling down at America. America’s image hummed and swayed, nearly imperceptible.

“That’s cool. We can head to my hotel room when you’re done. I only have a phone call to make after two. So then we can…” America frowned as he watched his images’ smile tighten, eyes nearly closing. Russia had been looking at his phone and had missed it.

He went to touch Russia’s arm to warn him something was probably going to happen, but he curled his fingers before clutching onto his coat. Wouldn’t it just be odd, maybe even shocking, to see two versions of himself? Wouldn’t Russia pick up that something was wrong there? The younger nation’s arm fell down to his side and Russia continued to walk blissfully with America’s image.

“Then we should get dinner, I will have to ask France to recommend a place near here.”

“Ha, or we could get on a plane or go anywhere. Oh! Maybe we should go to Rome. Food’s decent, I hear”

“That would be crazy.”

“Nah, that’d be spontaneous. You know! Awesome and stuff. And romantic!” America began to nip at his lower lip in thought as he watched his image close his eyes a little too long and his hand stray over the cut he had received. America placed his own hand over the tender spot, reassuring himself that he wasn’t still bleeding. He looked back to Russia, studying the back of his coat.

Russia however seemed to pick up on the sluggish quality of his image’s voice and turned a critical eye at the shorter man. “You sound out of breath.”

“Hey, you aren’t calling me fat, are you? ‘Cause you know… I know that I haven’t– well, been to the gym quite as much lately, but I’m not out of shape or anything!”

Russia didn’t say anything to the more obvious pants as America’s image both stumbled on his words and paused for a breath. He tried giving another smile, but even America could see how brittle it suddenly looked compared to the youthful smile from before. The older man placed a hand on the image’s shoulder. “America, please.”

“No, really. I’m fine. My side hurts a bit maybe…”

“Let me see,” Russia demanded.

“What? No. Not in the hall!” the image backed away, and it would have come off as playful it hadn’t been for the pained hiss at moving.

Russia didn’t say anything more, but rather pulled America close by the hips and quickly pulled a red hand away. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m going to change the bandages when I get back to the room.”

At this point America was hovering over Russia’s shoulder, worried that the image might just suddenly turn evil. Or attack him. Shoot, he should probably be prepared for a zombie invasion or fire breathing dragon at this point. But it was an odd dream for Russia to have where America was just bleeding. 

And at that second, his stomach dropped as he realized what was happening when the image swayed and fell to the floor in a heap. He stepped back, not knowing what to do. There was suddenly blood everywhere, as if the image was being bled dry and his eyes rolled back, blue eyes turning ashen grey. This dream needed to stop. America placed a hand on Russia’s shoulders as he held the image, trying to get him to wake and to stop the bleeding.

Russia was panicking. The dream wasn’t stopping. America couldn’t tell what Russia was saying, as it was too fast and nearly nonsensical when he switched from English to Russian constantly from his panic. The air grew cold, almost chilling, like a fog as it started from the toes and rooted into his body. America looked away as the image coughed, red spraying from his mouth. He took a step closer to Russia and the image as the edges of the room darkened. Ah. Now the dream was ending.

Russia was murmuring, panicked and scared. America knelt down, putting his own hand over Russia’s and trying to ignore how weird it was to be trying to stop the bleeding of his own body. He could feel violet eyes on him, but they didn’t hold the same weight they normally did. It was like Russia had seen him, knew he was there, but it became insignificant due to the garish blood dripping to the floor.

“Alfred,” Russia said pleadingly. America glanced in surprise at hearing the dread in his voice, the horror and fear that lurked rather than the quiet confidence that was normally there. “Alfred, please.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” the image laughed weakly, hand coming up and touching Russia’s nose and then cheek. “You’re okay. Yeah?”

“I’m– What does that.” Russia shook his head. “Why don’t you ever tell me anything?”

“Because then you’d worry,” America said aloud to deaf ears, pulling his hand off and scooting away from Russia and his image. His hand was coated in his images–his own?–blood. He rubbed it off quickly on his pants. Russia should have noticed that he was there, and yet he had only glanced at him once. America continued to sit on the ground, switching between watching the room fade into darkness and Russia’s face twist into something he hadn’t seen before.

The image tugged one of Russia’s hands away, giving a weak smile at the panic that bloomed. He kissed the Russian’s knuckles and then replaced the hand over his own slowly beating heart. “It’s alright, Russia.” The image closed his eyes.

Russia looked like a man whose world had been reduced to nothing, America realized as he finally placed what that awful and aching look Russia was gazing at the image with. He placed his hands on the image’s shoulders and said angrily, “Nyet! You don’t get to–” His voice broke and one hand came up to stop what could have been a cry, but stopped as he saw his hand stained in red.

America glanced back at the image when he realized the other’s chest had stopped. America watched his image die. There was probably some Freudian message there. Or maybe Nietzsche-esque? He was never good with modern philosophy. He jerked though at the hollow and anguished sob that came from Russia. Blue eyes wide, he turned to look at the older nation as he curled into himself, muttering in Russian louder than before.

“Woah, hey there, big guy. It’s all good. ‘Ya know?” he touched Russia’s shoulders again. When Russia’s head dipped lower, America placed one hand on his cheek. He gently tugged Russia’s face towards him and waited for violet eyes to focus. Heart beating quickly, America was scared at seeing the tears that were so rare. It frightened him. It made his throat tighten and face burn. His stomach clenched tightly and painfully, but America managed to hum, “Ivan, babe?”

Russia took a breath and pressed his head into the crook of America’s shoulder. America’s image lay dead between them. Alfred stroked at his hair, tilting his head as he looked around at the black room. He couldn’t tell where the floor ended and the walls began. It was only the darkness, Russia, and him.

“You cannot keep doing this to me Alfred,” Russia murmured. His grip was painfully tight on America’s arm.

“Can’t keep doing what, Ivan?” America asked and pressed his forehead to the back of Russia’s head. Even in the dream he smelled like he always did. That crisp winter air, the soft homey and healing smell of chamomile, and the bitter but warm waft of wood smoke.

Violet eyes looked straight into blue as Russia pulled away and moved to holding America’s face between his palms. “You cannot keep breaking my heart. It is killing me.”

The dream swirled, ebbing away into the darkness once more save the burning violet violet eyes left in his wake. America looked down, feeling cold air where warm fingers had once been.

He was back in the hotel room when his eyes opened again. The film of sleep slowly dripped away from America’s mind, letting the haze of warm morning light erase the last cold marks of the dreams. America frowned, blinking at the light before muttering and trying to pull the blankets above his head. Cocooning himself into the starched white covers of the hotel, a grunt from the warm body next to him reminded him that he wasn’t the only one in the bed. Warm and comforting fingers brushed against his forehead and pulled the covers back, light seeping in and invading the dark cocoon he had made. America blearily looked up into violet eyes before groaning at the light and pressing his face into the mattress.

He could hear the light chuckle, but there was a sad edge to it that cut away the drowsiness faster than any cup of coffee. “Russia?” America murmured and blinked at the fuzzy outline of his lover. The air in his lungs puffed out as he was enveloped into a tight embrace. Russia pulled his body close against his chest.

Russia’s dream from last night bubbled up, and America bit his tongue. He gave a weak laugh and muttered, “Hey, babe, you’re cuddly today…night…fuck. What time is it?” He arched away from Russia as the older nation stayed quiet, lips resting against the smaller man’s collarbone. It took a few seconds as he teetered at the edge of the bed to grab Texas, and he turned back to Russia as he slipped them on.

“It is seven,” Russia murmured.

“Seven what?”

Russia’s head was still pressed against his collarbone and America could feel the hot breath making the fabric of his shirt dampen. “At night.”

Blinking at the ceiling and snaking his hand around Russia’s shoulders he said, “Like tomorrow?”

The twitch of a smile could be felt and Russia glanced up towards America’s face. “As in the same day it was when we went to sleep. Tomorrow is the last day of meetings.”

“Oh. Well that’s cool.” He looked down and smiled at Russia, rubbing his nose against the older man’s cheek. “That means I get to whisk you away to my house tomorrow and have my way with you again.”

Russia snorted. “I believe you mean that I will have my way with you.”

America hummed and looked away from the ceiling to meet Russia’s gaze. “I love you.”

Russia hummed and sat up in the bed and America flopped his head into the other’s lap. “And I you. You must be hungry.”

“Fuck yeah,” America jolted up, nearly crashing into Russia’s chin. He paused, looking at the window of the hotel and then to the bathroom. “But first I’m going to drink some water. My mouth feels like the damn Sahara.” He glanced back at Russia, the dreams echoing through his thoughts and reminding him of all the heartbreak he had seen. Arms quickly snaked around Russia’s waist and he gave him a hug.

He could feel Russia’s breath ghosting down his neck, stuttering before returning back to its calming pattern. “You are unusually close this morning.” The thudding of his heart was soothing and filled America with warmth.

America laughed and pulled away after giving one small squeeze. “Ha, something like that. You know how dreams can be.”

Violet eyes darkened and saddened before he nodded solemnly. “Da. They can be unkind.”

“Something like that.” America kissed his cheek and spun out of his grasp. “Cool. Alright. So I don’t know about you, but I could eat forever right now. Dinner?” He padded off to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and cupping his hands to catch the cold clear water and quickly gulp it down. It tasted sweet and he swiped away the drops that traveled down his chin. “I know a few good restaurants around here. Um…Oh! There’s an awesome burger place in Harvard Square!” America paused, waiting for the usual argument and frowned at how quiet the room was. “Russia?” he asked again.

The younger nation poked his head out of the hotel bathroom, looking to see what Russia was doing. The older man was looking out of the window, hand parting the curtains to watch the golden sun reflect on the windows of the buildings. America leaned against the wall and smiled to himself. “I’m taking your silence as a yes, you know.”

Russia glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “We are not going to McDonalds.”

“Hey, don’t you know me at all. In the city, I am a man of refined tastes.” When Russia snorted, America turned around and walked to the bathroom, watching as Russia resumed watching the sun set on the skyline of Boston.


	10. Chapter 10

America woke with a kiss on his forehead. “You are going to be late,” Russia’s voice rumbled from above and America mumbled incoherently, pulling the soft cover up over his head and shifting farther into the confines of the warm bed. Russia sighed and America smiled sleepily until the covers were wrenched off in a flash and a bust of cold air hit his naked torso.

“Hey!” America said, scrambling to grab the edges of the comforter and the last vestiges of warmth. Russia however had pulled the sheets and cover completely off the bed and onto a chair on the other side of the room. Rubbing at his eyes, America blurrily frowned at the older nation, groping for his glasses perched on the nightstand. “Bastard,” he muttered, but there was no bite to the swear. He yawned loudly, stretching out the tight muscles in his back. Russia was smiling to himself, something akin to pride flickering in his violet eyes and America frowned. “I don’t like that look in your eyes.” Feet touching the cold carpet, America rubbed the back of his neck and frowned at the clock. No time for a shower then.

“I will see you down stairs.”

“Yeah, yeah.” America waved his hand. Blue eyes trailed over the Russian’s back until he slipped through the doorway, closing the hotel door slowly with a quiet click. Kicking the lid of his suitcase open, America rummaged through to find the least crumpled work shirt and a clean pair of briefs. He pulled out a soft white shirt and cotton undershirt, tossing it to the bare bed along with a red and gold stripped tie (which was his second favorite because it secretly reminded him of Gryffindor. His first was a soft violet one because it reminded him of Russia’s eyes). America rubbed his own blue eyes with the heel of his palm, stumbling into the bathroom with another yawn to relieve himself and wash his face. He stared at the wall, humming a bit of Elvis as he thought about last night. Or the lack of it.

Russia and he had gone out for dinner, and that had been great. Even better was coming back to the room, making out like two horny teens and lying on the bed, bodies pressed together tightly. And they had fallen asleep entangled together into a dreamless sleep, or that’s what America assumed since he hadn’t see any dreams at all. Of course, what did that mean exactly? Was everything done and over with? With a shiver, America shook his head. No, that couldn’t be it.

Flushing, the blond walked over to the sink and lathered his hands with the bar of white hotel soap. At least today was the last day of meetings, and then he would have Russia all to himself without stupid diplomatic interruptions. America smirked to himself, looking up to the mirror to make sure his hair didn’t make him look like a startled wheat colored cockatoo, and said loudly, “Fuckin’…”

There was a very prominent red and purple mark on his neck, just at the position above where his shirt collar would hit. Turning to the side and angling his neck, America tried to see if there was anyway to hide it. “Really? God damn it.” He jerked the drawer out, muttering a mixture of curses and sighs as he searched for a band-aid. Peeling off the white plastic, America continued to mutter to himself and placed the band-aid over the red mottled skin.

No wonder he had looked so fucking pleased with himself. America frowned at himself in the mirror, grabbing his toothbrush and quickly slathering on the blue gel before quickly brushing his teeth. America would have to get back at him. Maybe he’d just call him out on something stupid, and then kick him from under the table. Or maybe, and he was liking this idea better, he was going to throw him down on the floor and pin him there as soon as they entered the house and show him just how much he appreciated being marked. Yeah. That was a better idea.

He spat out the toothpaste, cupping the cold water in his mouth and rinsing out the extreme mint flavor. Glancing once more at the mirror, he scowled and walked out to the bed. America frowned as he changed into the underclothes and suit, staring at the half parted curtains and the soft butter glow of morning light. Was it that Russia hadn’t had any dreams? Or had he not gone to sleep? It seemed too out of place that the dreams had simply stopped. The doors had a caustic flare to them and America could have sworn there was something lurking behind him all the time, as if waiting for something. America shook his head as he knotted his tie, sighing and grabbing his phone and briefcase on the other side of the room. Another quick glance at the clock said that the time was fifteen minutes before the meeting started. Five minutes before they were supposed to start going into the conference room. “Fuck that,” the nation hummed to himself, sitting on the bed to slip on his black shoes and double-checking that he had his card for the room.

The hall smelled like cleaning products and America rubbed at his eyes again. Fuck being tired. Fuck all this. Fuck Russia for being all secretive and shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. America trudged towards the elevator, balancing his briefcase under his arm as he quickly fixed the buckle on his watch. Ending up by the steel doors of the elevator, the young nation continued to fiddle with his watch as he waited for the elevator while humming a song he had heard on the radio. Why was it that he could never remember the lyrics? America began to softly sing, replacing all the unknown words with either a light hum or muttering ‘something’ in its place. His back prickled with the knowledge that something was looming behind him, too close, and America struck out as the realization that chilling tinge that crept up his spine was the same one he had felt in Russia’s dreams in the corridor.

“Hey!” America watched a blur of gold and navy lean back haphazardly, missing his startled punch. “What the fuck, Alfred!”

Blinking stopped the chill in his spine as he realized it was his brother. America stopped to stare at the frowning nation and quickly threw an embarrassed smile on his lips. “Sorry, bro. You can’t sneak up on me like that!”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I called out your name!” Canada huffed, adjusting his suit slightly before threading his fingers through his longer hair. Lavender eyes studied him for a minute, closing as Canada shook his head. “You look like shit.”

“Well thanks. And you’re just as pretty as a daisy.” America continued to grin, reaching out and fluffing his brother’s hair up until the other man pushed him away with a grumble. As the elevator doors opened he could see a small smile on Canada’s lips and gave him a slight nudge with his elbow. “When France see’s how wrinkled that jacket is he’ll be like a puffed up pigeon.” Thumb hitting the lobby button, America rested his back against the walls of the wood paneled elevator, watching the doors close quietly.

Canada shrugged his shoulders, the pad of his thumb traveling along the seams of the leather briefcase handle. “It’s only a morning meeting,” he yawned. Canada adjusted his glasses and America looked up to the ceiling as the soft notes of Rachmaninov floated down around them. Canada opened his mouth once, brows furrowing and finally he turned to America asking, “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” America looked to his brother, noticing the frown that had floated back to his mouth. Blue eyes rolled in agitation and he added, “I drank water, went to sleep. Russia and I went out for dinner and we went to bed. I was just tired yesterday.”

His thumb continued to trail along the dotted seam of the handle and Canada let out a small hum. “Try not to do that again, alright? I thought you got attacked or something.” His eyes were serious, but softened as he added with a chuckle, “Russia looked like a chicken with his head cut off.”

America made a face at that. “He’s just overreacting, I was totally fine.” He pulled off a piece of lint while Canada shook his head, glancing up as the elevator slowed and the doors opened with a high pitched ding.

Stepping out into the garble of quiet conversations of other hotel guests in the lobby, Canada gave America a nudge. “No, he wasn’t overreacting. And both of you are making me nervous.”

“How come?”

“Both of you look like you haven’t slept in days. Russia looked delirious earlier this week and now you pass out.” He was still frowning, but before America could mutter that his face was going to be stuck like that, he tilted his head and lavender eyes darted towards the pristine marble floor. “I mean, if you two are…um… occupied every night–“

“No. Well, I mean, Yeah. Obviously with an ass like…” Canada and America stared at each other awkwardly. “You know what? I’m going to get something to eat.”

“I’ll see you at the meeting, yeah?”

America swiveled in place quickly walking away from his brother and towards the alluring scent of the hotel’s café. Hopping from alternating black tiles, America quickly bounced over to the coffee shop, stomach rumbling already as blue eyes scanned over the menu. He glanced around as he waited in line, almost expecting a tuft of pale blond hair to be sitting at a table. America frowned and reached for his wallet as he grew closer to the registers, still trying to decide between just a regular black coffee or a latte. Fingers lithely scraped across his bottom, squeezing lightly, America stiffened while bringing his elbow up in immediate retaliation to deck the person behind him. A large but gentle hand firmly stopped him and America frowned at the puff of laughter in his ear.

“Good morning.”

Fuck. How did that man make ‘good morning’ sound sexy while standing in a hotel coffee shop? America pulled his arm away, frowning at the taller nation. “Don’t sneak up on me!” That was the second time today! He gave Russia a quick peck on the cheek and turned back to the cashier. He looked up into Russia’s violet eyes when his fingers wrapped around his bicep.

“I will get it this time. You got it for me last time.” He was in a dark charcoal suit today while wearing America’s favorite soft blue tie. When the light hit it just right you could see the pattern of the fabric was actually binary.

America smiled at it and then shook his head. “You paid for dinner last night.”

“And you paid for it before then.” Russia’s brow furrowed as America stepped up to order. “Alfred.”

“A large coffee and a breakfast sandwich on a bagel with cheddar and bacon, please.” The woman nodded, punching in the keys to the register, totaling the order to $6.88. America glanced back towards him, and shrugged. “If you have your heart set on it, I guess I’ll let you.”

Russia stood next to him at the register, adding an order of chamomile tea. Nudging him with his hip in thanks, America pulled out his phone and quickly skimmed over the headlines of his emails. He sighed at the twenty unread work messages, stowing the phone back as it vibrated with another incoming email. Sometimes the North American nation wished he could just chuck the phone away. Being in constant contact with work sucked sometimes. Russia moved towards the other end of the café where the milk and sugar sat, waiting for their order. America walked over and glanced at the newspapers by the entrance. Although, cell phones weren’t all that bad…after all, America greatly appreciated getting photos instantly from 4,000 miles away. With a hum at that thought, America focused back on the headlines of the papers. War, death, economy sucking. Yup. The media was fine.

“How did you sleep?” Russia asked, stirring at his tea after handing America the hot and fragrant breakfast.

“Fine.” Coffee was so good. Where would America be without it? Probably at the bottom of the Mariana trench. “How ‘bout you?”

Russia was quiet for a moment, taking a sip of his tea as they strolled towards the conference room in the quieter part of the massive building. “I cannot complain.”

Blue eyes gazed levelly at the other man, flickering down as he took another bite of the sandwich. “Can’t complain isn’t really the same thing as being fine, babe.”

Russia shrugged, looking to the broad windows dotting the hallway. “I am looking forward to going back to Maine.”

Conversation switcher. America grumbled at his coffee for a moment, realizing he wasn’t going to get anything out of the other man. “Me too. I miss my bed.” The lumpy, but comfy as heaven, aged mattress that smelled like cigarettes, clean cotton, and oranges. It was an odd combination of scents, but it was comforting and America loved the old thing. Russia hated it since America didn’t like to test the strength of the old thing.

“I think you should throw that one out,” Russia said.

America smiled. “You’re the one always saying I buy too many new things.”

“I will make an exception.”

America glanced up at him, meeting violet eyes. “It’s not like you actually really ever sleep in it or anything. I mean, let’s be honest with ourselves here.”

Russia just hummed, shifting slightly as they stopped outside the conference room door. A low hum of voices from outside could be heard already out in the hall despite the heavy doors. “It is very worn, and stained.”

“Well, if you hadn’t been smoking in the thing like I told you-“

“I did no such thing.”

“So the burn mark just magically appeared.” America gave a little laugh at seeing Russia’s somewhat guilty look and patted the other man’s shoulder. “Well, if you hate it so much you can just sleep on the couch.” With a hum he added, “Well, time to be fed to the wolves.”

Russia looked down at America, a frown on his face as he watched the smaller man begin to look weary. “I would not say that.” The cold morning sipped heat away from their backs as they stood by the drafty windows, the morning light bouncing off of America’s glasses and making Russia’s hair glisten.

“Uh huh.” America rubbed his hands, glancing out of the window overlooking the hotel garden. They would be talking about the economy again, since the half-day meeting was always on whatever the most prevent problem to revisit was. Talking about the economy was, for the past few years, ‘Let’s All Talk About How Much America has Ruined Our Lives’ and America would have to be on the defensive for the next four hours. America scuffed his shoe on the rug and shrugged before standing up straight and smiling as brightly as he could. “Let’s get lunch in Boston before we leave. I don’t want to get anything on the freeway.”

Violet eyes were steadily studying him and finally the taller man nodded. “Alright.” America pulled the door open for him and followed into the conference room, already feeling a headache from the babble of languages pouring out.

***

Pillowing his face in his arms, America buried his face into the dark confines, staring at the table inches away from his face as cracks of light slipped under his arms. The table smelled like pine and coffee and was cool at contact with the tip of his nose. A heavy hand came down on his shoulder and America gave out a soft whine. “What? I’m tired, alright?” He didn’t have to look up to know it was Russia, he could sort of just sense it was him.

The top of his head was kissed softly. America smiled and unfolded his arms, resting his cheek in his palm as he looked up. He felt exhausted again, something that he was unnervingly feeling regular. But every time he looked at Russia, saw those violet eyes, the same color as the rising sun on a grey winter morning, he knew everything was going to be alright again. “So, lunch?” America asked.

“If you are up for it.” Russia moved to the side, slipping his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.

“When am I never up for lunch?”

“True.” He was scrolling through his phone, eyes flickering as he read and America looked back to the table, taking a long slow breath before gazing about the empty and silent room. “We will have to check out first.”

“Oh yeah. Hm. Tell you what, I’ll meet you down in the lobby, throw our shit in my car and we’ll grab something to eat over by the aquarium before heading back up to my house.” America leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms until he felt a small pop in his shoulder. Standing up, he grabbed his briefcase and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sound good?”

“Da.” Russia and America walked out of the conference room, patting his phone as he felt it vibrate against his leg.

**From: Arthur Kirkland**

_I need to talk to you before you leave._

America began to fiddle with his phone and looked up as he realized Russia was talking to him, “Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you knew where my navy tie is. I can not find it in my room.”

**From: Alfred F. Jones**

**To: Arthur Kirkland**

_abt? cuz if its policies, it cn wait._

“Did you check under the bed? I might’ve kicked it there.” Russia tugged on his elbow, stopping him from walking into one of the pillars along the side of the hallway. America didn’t look away from his phone, watching as the screen lit up as Arthur texted back.

**From: Arthur Kirkland**

_No. About the dreams._

“Are you sure it is not in your room?”

“Yeah, man.” Besides, America knew that he would remember ripping that tie off if it was in his room. “Did you even sleep last night? You looked tired through the whole meeting.”

**From: Arthur Kirkland**

_It is important_.

“Of course I did.” America looked away from his phone and up at the taller man, frowning slightly as they stopped in front of the elevators. “Besides, you are the one who looks like he is going to pass out again.”

“I’m not gonna pass out again.”

Russia frowned, his lips set in a thin line and America looked back down to his phone.

**To: Arthur Kirkland**

**From: Alfred F. Jones**

_ill b @ yr rm in 20 min_

Russia was saying something in his deep voice, sounding like a muted cello as America rubbed at his jaw at the text and nodded offhandedly. “Yeah, sure.”

It was the wrong response as a thick layer of silence fell on him and America looked up, the same time as the elevator doors opened and a woman and her young son in a stroller came out. Shit. What had he just agreed to? Russia walked into the elevator and America followed behind, pressing the buttons for their separate floors.

“Really?” Russia asked.

“Uh…No? I kinda tuned you out. Sorry.”

“I asked if you wanted me to drive.” America leaned against the dark paneling of the elevator, hands tucked behind him after he placed his phone in his pocket. Russia was still gazing at him and the fizz of guilt bubbled up in America’s stomach from seeing the worry in his eyes. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

“I don’t care. You just can’t do 97 on the highway like last time.”

Russia tilted his head slightly and America could see the small smudges of a smile there. “I wasn’t going that fast.”

“You’re right…if the roads were in kilometers. Not miles. 60 miles per hour is like a hundred kilometers per hour, which I know you know but I think you need _gentle_ reminders.” America held up his hand as they came to his floor. “And don’t even start with the metric conversion shit. I like my measurements.” He straightened up, putting a friendly hand on the other’s shoulder. “I’ll see you in a half and hour, alright? I’ll see you in the lobby.”

“Alright,” Russia murmured and America watched the elevator doors close. He sighed, straightening his suit and began to walk down the hall to where England’s hotel room was. 807. He knocked twice, listening to the obvious sounds of someone moving about the room before the island nation pulled the door open, for once the perpetual scowl not on his face, but a mixture of both relief and weariness.

America might not be great at sensing the tension in a room, but he could read a face pretty damn well. “England?” he ventured.

“Come on in, git.” He turned and walked into the small hotel room, looking about the organized suitcase on the bed and laptop case in between being packed. America sat down by the desk and propped his feet up. “What’s up?”

“There is something about the dreams that has been bothering me, the fact that it attacked you while you were in the corridor just doesn’t seem right.” England was standing by the open window, but his back was to the skyline. He looked down at the floor, his thumb running along his jaw. “I’ve been talking to Flying mint bunny–”

“Oh come on–”

“What?” The frown was back firmly on England’s lips, as he narrowed his verdant eyes at America.

“Flying mint bunny?” America asked. When England said nothing, but thinned his lips in slight anger, America rolled his eyes and looked to the wall where a watercolor painting hung. “If you can’t source it in a scientific journal, it’s not a legit source.”

“Did I cast the damn spell or not?”

America said nothing and made a small hand gesture for him to continue. Moving away from the window, England walked over to the bed and began to fold some of his work shirts. “Now that you’re done criticizing Mint,” England paused and America held his hands up, “He and I were thinking and came to somewhat of the same conclusion.”

America watched as England folded with military like precision. “We looked over the theories again. There must have been a mistranslation centuries ago. The conciousness’ guard? He thinks it’s actually a manifestation of the persons emotions,” England continued, “Some very strong emotions.” As the words left England’s mouth, America watched in confusion at the other man slowed down in his movements until he was left staring at the comforter on the bed. America knew that look and pulled his feet down off the desk.

“What?”

“Well, our hypothesis is that they are emotions. And strongly negative ones at that. And the reason they’re attacking you is because they are associated with you. So to protect the mind, the conciouness is trying to defend itself.”

A shadow must have passed over the sun because suddenly the room felt darker and dreary. “What? What does that– are you telling me that it’s basically Russia attacking me?”

England looked up, his green eyes bright. “No. Not quite. It’s more along the lines of…” he paused and folded his arms, sitting at the edge of the bed while watching America carefully. “For example, if I were to hate you and you entered my dreams, the strongest of my own emotions directed towards you would come to interact with you. Because hate it so negative, it manifests itself as a violent negative being. And thus it attacks you to protect me.”

“So what you’re telling me is that Russia basically hates me.” He could feel the cracks starting to fissure his heart, spreading broken glass through his core. America was staring at England as the other man stood up once again, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room and near the young nation.

“It doesn’t have to be hate. It could be fear, abandonment, unsureness, disbelief, isolation–“

“Because all of those things are really fucking good to have about your boyfriend.” His head dipped down into his hands rubbing along side his temple as he stared into the darkness he made. America looked back up at England and rested back in the desk chair.

“Alfred, listen. It’s only a theory. I could be completely wrong. But my point is, you have to be careful. Its singular goal is to remove the threat. It could try to really hurt you. I actually think it may be best you don’t try to interact with any of the dreams anymore.” England put his hand on America’s shoulder.

America looked down to the ground, still feeling the shard of England’s words pulsing through his veins. With every heartbeat the jagged pieces tore at his arteries, leaving his heart sore and aching. His mind whirled with possibilities of what it meant. What if Russia really was afraid of him? The notion usually made America laugh because A) he was big enough to handle himself and B) Russia would have gladly put a bullet in him during the cold war if he had thought America was an immediate threat. But it wasn’t the Cold War any more. What if Russia was still wary of him…still thought of him as his rival and was only pretending that he loved America?

America tapped his head with the heel of his palm. No. That was idiotic, even for him. Paranoia got him nowhere. Like he could even imagine Russia doing that. In fact, if Russia ever found out America even had that notion he probably would beat him up for it. But despite America’s conflicting thoughts, the ebb and swelling of the darkness of those fears encircled him. America stared into the yaw of his own greatest fear, the one that nibbled at him in the dark, the same one that was always obliterated when he looked into Ivan’s eyes.

What if Russia really didn’t love him?


	11. Chapter Eleven

_“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey.”_

A grey sky bore down on Boston, blanketing the city with a thick haze of mist. The cold rippled down America’s back, and he pushed off from leaning against the cool metal of the green truck. There wasn’t a single speck of blue to be seen above and he looked down while slipping his glasses off to wipe away the water droplets. America twirled the black folded umbrella in his hands, leaning back against the car again while waiting for Russia. 

“ _You’ll never know dear, how much I love you,_ ” America continued to quietly sing, feeling his heart twist as England’s words ricocheted through his chest. The doubt that maybe Russia didn’t love him was thorny and ached. It slunk through his chest cavity, wrapping and squeezing around his spine like snakes. “ _Please don’t take my sunshine away_.” America stopped singing as he looked down to the gritty asphalt and ground his toe into an old cigarette butt. 

“ _In all my dreams dear, you seem to leave me. When I awake my poor heart pains_ ,” He gave a half-hearted smile at the lyrics, feeling the wound on his side seemingly throb with his thoughts. America paused to rub at his jaw. Russia was finally out of the lobby doors, glancing around and looking for America. The younger man waved with the useless umbrella, swinging it in a wide arc. He gave a small smile in return as he watched Russia grin and walk towards him. And just like that, the pricking and burning doubt and questions quieted down to a cool sputtering ember, “ _So when you come back and make me happy,_ ” the song still crooned out, and America stopped with a small laugh when Russia glanced to him again, held up momentarily by Ukraine coming to him for one last quick conversation. America watched them silently and smiled when his sister pulled him into a hug and kiss. 

A glance down to his wristwatch said it was 1:27. It felt later in the day thanks to the dark gloomy clouds bearing down from overhead. He wished it would just rain rather then mist like this. At least he could use the umbrella then. It drove America crazy how the water would collect on his glasses and leave him blind every ten minutes. With a sigh, he pulled off his glasses again to dry the lens with the corner of his shirt. “ _I’ll forgive you dear, I’ll take all the blame,_ ” America stopped his singing, switching back to humming, as Russia finally came over to the car. Despite the seemingly calm and rather bored look the other man carried, America could see the tenseness in his eyes and that vague look of concern that he had perpetually for the past few days. There was an air of fatigue there too, and America wondered if it would be best if they just got back to Maine and slept the whole day. 

“All set?” America asked, hand reaching out to take Russia’s luggage. 

“Da. I am looking forward to getting back home.” He put his hand on America’s shoulder, a warm and comfortable gesture that made his heart swell. He rose on the balls of his feet to reach Russia’s height to kiss him on the cheek. 

Turning back to the car, America ran a hand through his dampening hair and pulled the back door open. The car still smelled like new leather and a mixture of grit, rain, and city air. “You know– maybe we should have a family dinner. I don’t think we’ve had one in a few years. Might be fun.”

“Belarus tired to stab you in the eye last time.”

America glanced behind him, his hand still on Russia’s luggage in the car. “Uh. True. But I did…sorta, maybe, call her fat.” 

“Sort of.”

“Okay, so I called her a cow.” 

America ginned brightly while Russia frowned and pulled the door to the driver’s seat open. “I cannot stop her from murdering you then. I believe that goes for any woman.”

“Wha– she totally called me fat too!” America walked over to the passenger’s side when Russia pulled the door close. The ignition rumbled on before he got into the car and America went for the heat first, then turned on the radio and rolled the knob until the volume was just background noise. “No comment there bud?” Russia looked over the edge of his hand as he rubbed his cheek, and the younger man took his silence as his answer. “Ha. Fine. Just drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

 

_He’s sitting in a dusky bar, eyes concentrating on the burnt copper colored liquid settled at the bottom of his glass. The whiskey had red edges, reflecting the neon sign hanging precariously above the wall of alcohol. He gives a mock toast, tipping the glass slightly towards the ripped and tattered picture of a smiling calendar woman. America looks away and frowns at the garbled writing of the neon, unable to read what the sign says, and looks back down to the wooden bar. It’s red too, illuminating the dents and scratches with the neon light. America traces a long scratch with the pad of his thumb and looks down at his fingernail. He digs out the dried blood stuck to his cuticles and frowns dourly. “Everything is fucking red here.”_

_The bar keep says something, and America grunts, looking back to his nearly finished drink. America feels a hand on his shoulder and traces the rim of the glass with his thumb. The ice clinks._

_“You have some nerve.”_

_“Always been a bit suicidal,” America responds, smiling and turning to meet vitriolic violet eyes._

 

 

America jolted awake, foot slipping off the glove box of the car and thumping loudly onto the floor. Blinking, he looked confused from the wrapper-covered floor to outside, sliding higher in the seat and yawning. “Where ‘re we?” He rubbed at his cheek, ice cold from being pressed against the window.

“Five minutes from the house,” Russia replied, turning the radio down a bit and sparing the younger man a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road, an amused smile on his face. 

“Damn, I slept for a while,” America muttered while rubbing a hand over his face, glancing out at the familiar trees and sparse houses. “Guess you knew the way then.”

“ I would hope I know. You have had this house for a while.”

“Since forever,” America agreed and began to fiddle with the radio, ignoring the look of mild ire at changing the station. Russia might kick him out of the car while it was moving if he left it on Katy Perry…hm. Lady GaGa too. 

“I would not call 1902 ‘forever ago’.” 

“If I had to wear a suit to dinner, it was forever ago. “ Ha. Johnny Cash would be good. America pulled away from the radio, looking out at the blurred scenery and gray sky. Russia hummed and America rubbed at his jaw, still sore from being against the cold window for nearly two hours. 

“Why do you have a book on my history?” Russia asked suddenly.

America blinked and looked to the other man, sleep addled mind unable to come up with a quick retort. “Huh?” He finally said.

“The book on Russian history.” Russia glanced over to America, locking eyes before returning his gaze to the quiet road. He shifted in the seat and rested his elbow against the car door, driving with one hand. 

“Oh. Uh, I was curious. I mean, I know some stuff.” America sat up fully as he realized the edge to Russia’s words. “But I don’t know everything. Just curious.” He finally ended, looking back to his boyfriend. Johnny Cash ended, moving to a commercial for a local shoe store, which said it had the lowest prices in the area with the best service too. 

“You could have asked.” Russia said. He looked away from where America was sitting and to the left side of the road, stopping their eyes from meeting. While America couldn’t see his face, he could see how Russia’s hand flexed tightly on the steering wheel and went back to two hands. “You would rather I asked you about your civil war then just reading it, correct?”

Shit. America winced. He was in trouble, wasn’t he? “Sorry, babe. I…uh” What was he apologizing for? “Fair enough. I figured there was stuff you wouldn’t want to talk about.”

“There are plenty of things I would not want to talk about, but I would rather you did not simply read a book.” The car stopped, killing the Toyota commercial and America looked out the window, realizing that they were at the house. Russia’s eyes fell onto America as he shifted the car into park and turned off the car. 

“Ask. Got it.” America gave a weak smile. “Communication! See, who says we suck at that?” America nudged his arm and got out of the car, missing Russia’s frustrated gaze and how his jaw tensed. 

America ran his hand against the wet truck, and opened the car door to pull out the two suitcases from the backseat. His back pocket vibrated from a phone call and the younger man signed heavily, pulling the phone out and answering. “ Hello?”

“America?”

“What up bro?” America pulled the two suitcases out with one hand and shut the car door, looking to where Russia was opening the front door of the quiet New England home. 

“ Can I talk to you?” Canada asked. The call crackled with static or background noise. Listening closer, it sounded like his brother was in an airport. 

“About what?” America asked. He watched as Russia walked inside the house and couldn’t help but feeling like the mood had soured into something that was more than just the book. How did he find it anyway? He had packed the book up in his suitcase under his shirt. “Actually,” America said as he walked towards the front door, listening to the car clink as it cooled down, “Can I call you back later?” America realized that his brother was trying to say something, but it sounded like buzzing as he put the luggage down in the foyer, “Kay. Cool. Bye.”

He turned off the phone, toed off his shoed and kicked them and the luggage into a somewhat organized look. The living room was dark, both from the shadows of early evening and the gray rainclouds that still hung thickly from the sky. The room smelled smoky and had a damp chill. Maybe he should make some coffee. And a fire. America looked towards the kitchen, hand resting on the doorframe. “I’m making a pot,” he called out into the house. “Do you want some?” A muffled ‘no’ came from upstairs and America walked into the tiled room, curling his socked feet against the cold floor. He grabbed the silver coffee maker, filling it up with cold water and four scoops of coffee grinds before plugging the pot in, waiting to hear the soft sounds of percolation before moving towards the back of the house where he kept the firewood. 

Maybe the wood would be too damp? It hadn’t rained all that much in Boston, but the air was still thick with moisture here. America rubbed at his neck before opening the back door, pulling the black bucket with him too. As he grabbed some of the chopped firewood and kindle, America let his mind wander, listening distantly to the loud clatter of the wood falling into the plastic bucket. 

Well, today didn’t seem to be going well. What England had said about the dreams had made his stomach knot and feel queasy. And now Russia was being moody, a thought in which America chucked the wood into the bucket a little harder than necessary. Although, he had a point, America still didn’t like it when Ivan was upset with him. And on top of all that shit, America had been dreaming about their meetings back during the Cold War. 

The blond haired man shook his head. Nope. That was all in the past. They were both past those days of tense secrecy, sculpted paranoia, and beating the shit out of each other for even just glancing the wrong way. It was probably good America had woken up from that dream. He had broken Russia’s nose and collarbone in that fight. The thought made his stomach lurch. Standing up straight, America looked up to the sky. It was still gray, but he could almost imagine the slivers of pale blue that could be breaking through like cracks on an eggshell. The air seemed lighter away from the city. America looked to the trees adjacent to his house and glanced up to the house. The bedroom window was still dark. 

America sighed and grabbed the bucket, hoping the kindle would light. He stepped back into the house and closed the door tightly. “Did you go out with socks?”

Russia was leaning against the kitchen counter, looking down at America’s cold and wet feet. Putting the wood down by the door, America shrugged and went to wipe his hands clean on a kitchen rag. “Guess I didn’t realize it.”

“You are going to get sick like that,” Russia murmured. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead took a sip out of his mug. America walked over to the counter, finding a mug of coffee already filled with cream. “I thought you said you didn’t want any?”

“You made two cups of coffee.”

“You normally leech off of mine anyway.” America took a sip of the hot drink, keeping the porcelain against his teeth to let the steam warm his nose. The hot coffee made his mouth tingle from the warmth and it sat happily in his stomach. Russia had changed, wearing a while cable knit sweater and a pair of old faded jeans. There were grass stains on the nearly white knees from the heavy use in the garden. America loved it when Russia wore jeans, but hated the sweater. It always made his boyfriend look sick and made the dark circles under his eyes jump out. 

“You still mad at me?” America mumbled into the cup.

“Nyet.” Russia looked pensive but turned his violet gaze into the dark living room. “Not so much.”

“Okay.” America looked back into the dark liquid and hummed. “I’m gonna put a fire on, yeah?” 

“Is that a question or a statement?”

“I’m tellin’ ya.”

Russia took another sip of coffee and smiled. “That would be nice.” 

“Cool. I’m going to change real quick and then I’ll be down. Maybe we can watch a movie?”

“Da. I like that idea.” 

America took his mug upstairs, walking into his bedroom and putting the drink down on top of a ripped Tom Clancy novel on his bedside. The floorboards creaked and popped with his weight and America pulled out the dresser drawer, shuffling through to find a long sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans to pull on. As he changed, his phone buzzed again and America answered it, seeing his brother’s name light up on the glass screen. 

“Hey.”

“Hi. Listen, are you alright?”

America stopped shuffling with his clothing and blinked inside his cocoon of cotton as he stopped midway of pulling his half buttoned dress shirt off. “Yeah, why?”

“Russia talked to me this afternoon,” Canada continued and America pulled his shirt off all the way, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder to work on removing his belt. “He’s worried and I just wanted to make sure you’re fine.”

“Nothing’s wrong here,” America assured his brother and pulled on the jeans. 

“Well, obviously you’re doing something because he asked me if you were dying.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” There was a muffled sound from the other side of the line and America used the minute to rapidly pull his shirt on. 

“Why would he think that?” 

“I don’t know,” there was another pause and Canada cleared his throat. “Alfred, look. If nothing’s wrong and you’re just being an idiot again, just make sure he gets it. He’s worried, alright?”

America sat down on the bed, kicking at his work pants pooled on the floor. “Yeah. Okay. Look, I’ll see you next week” He pulled his legs up and peeled off the wet black socks. “Love you, ya stupid Canuck.”

“Yeah, yeah. You too, hoser.”

The line went dead and America threw his phone into his pillow, pressing his face into the mattress and letting out a loud sigh. 

Well, shit.


	12. Chapter Twelve

The gray day had turn into a dark chilly night, punctuated by the ghostly sounding howls of wind that made the old home groan. America glanced up from washing a chipped dinner plate as the light in the kitchen flickered. Turning off the tap, he rubbed off the excess soap suds with his thumb and passed it to his right where Russia took it from him. It had been a quiet night so far. America had lain on the bed for a while after Canada had called, staring at the ceiling and the shadows that slowly crawled with time. He had finally gone back down stairs, still in thought and entering some mindless conversation that might have had to do something about wallpaper and a broken wrench. Dinner was also forgetful, though America could feel that his stomach was full with a pleasant weight and a sweet taste of onions lingered on his tongue. Blue eyes flickered, watching Russia’s back as he placed the dish away in the open wooden cabinet. Strong shoulders seemed weighted down and America long to curl his fingers around them, but instead he kept his hands under the running water, watching the steam dance in the soft light.

The clatter of ceramic was loud and America glanced to Russia again, watching as the other man adjusted the bowls in his hand and moved them onto the counter. He gave a small smile at seeing America watching him and returned to placing the dishes away. Russia tossed the damp red-checkered drying cloth over his left shoulder and America tuned back to the running tap.

“Canada called me,” America said. He stared down at the soapy water rushing over his hands and continued to scrub at the pot. Russia stilled and silence filled the kitchen.

“About what?”

“That you think I’m dying.” The pan in the sink clattered loudly as America flipped it over, scrubbing with the yellow sponge in a rapid clockwise motion. “Which I’m not,” he added, still keeping his gaze down at the sink. “Just to let you know.”

When Russia didn’t say anything for a while, America turned off the tap and looked at the taller man. He was rubbing at a red bowl, drying the nonexistent water and staring at America with a heavy violet gaze. “You are okay.”

It wasn’t a question, but there was a note of relief there. America bit at his lip, resisting the urge to frown. “Healthy as a babe.”

“You are a babe,” Russia muttered with a huff and turned away to place the bowl on a high shelf. America stuck his tongue out and shook the pan free of excess water before grabbing a towel to dry his hands.

“Then what is wrong?”

“Huh?” America adjusted his glasses, leaning against the tiled counter. “What do you mean?”

“America,” Russia turned to him and America could see the darkness of fear festering in his violet eyes, and his cheeks were red with some emotion. He looked sick with fright. “You just suddenly started bleeding in the bed that night. How can everything be fine?”

“It healed fine. It’s probably not going to even scar.”

“That is not the point.” Russia put the tea towel down and crossed his arms, staring at the floor for a long while, his eyes darting as though trying to conjure the answers from the scuffed floor. America watched him carefully, having expected him to raise his voice, but instead Russia’s voice had been quiet. Somehow, quiet was worse. “That,” Russia repeated looking straight into America’s blue eyes, “is not the point.”

Another ghoulish howl of wind made the house groan softly. Walking to the sink again, America grasped a recently cleaned glass and held it under the tap, watching as water and bubbles swirled to the brim. Russia was still watching him and the younger man placed the glass on the counter after taking a sip. “I know it probably freaked you out, but I’m promising you that I’m fine and that it’s all good.”

“Can it happen again?”

America blinked and glanced away to the darkened living room in thought. How long was this supposed to last anyway? England hadn’t said and America hadn’t cared to ask. No, he wanted to lie, but the thought was bitter and made his stomach churn. “I guess it could,” he finally admitted.

“Then tell me what is going on.” Russia walked over to America, standing in front of him so it was impossible to just look away and ignore the hurt and fear in his eyes.

“Look, I promise it’s–”

“If you do not tell me what is wrong I will walk out of this house right now.”

They fell into silence again as the ultimatum was set. America stared up at him, hands gripping at the counter and frowned. Russia’s lips were pressed into a hard thin line and he folded his arms. 

America took the glass into his hands again, looking down into the clear liquid and the ripples sailing across as he tapped the cup. His mind whirled, trying to come up with something to say other than, Oh, yeah. Well you know. I’ve been in your dreams. Fucking around. Oh, and I got stabbed by something which I’m pretty sure was your subconscious trying to kill me because you secretly hate me. That wouldn’t be tactful. America could feel the precipice he was standing on and knew it would take little to push him off. “What do you want to know?” America asked slowly.

“How did you get hurt?”

“Well, I got injured.”

“Alfred,” Russia said. There was a hint of anger there and America rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I just want the truth.”

You can’t handle the truth, America thought and had to bite his lip from laughing at the quote that popped into his brain. All the same, he snorted lightly and watched Russia’s eyes narrow slightly. “Look,” America finally said, “I’m sorry for scaring you like that, but– where are you going?” America walked behind Russia as the other turned for the hall.

“I said if you would not tell me I would leave,” Russia said grimly, walking through the darkened hall and towards the door.

“Russia, wait.” The taller man kept walking, not even slowing down as America kept trying to talk to him. “Shit, man. Would you stop for one– Ivan!” America stopped in the blue hall, watching as he grabbed his coat from the closet. “Your nightmares,” America finally said as Russia’s fingers brushed against the door handle; arm halfway into his black coat.

Russia turned around and the residual light from outside made his eyes gleam. His hand still rested on the handle while staring at America. “What?” he finally said.

“Your nightmares,” America repeated, feeling as though he had been drenched in ice water. His flesh bubbled with goose bumps and he swiped at his arm quickly with his broad hand.

“What about them?” Russia asked, turning away from the door with growing confusion on his face.

Blue eyes trailed down to the veins in his hand. He felt suddenly like a child being chastised and gritted his teeth. “You nearly passed out in a crosswalk and got hit by a car last week. Because you weren’t getting enough sleep from the dreams. Shit Ivan! You looked like you were going to keel over any second.” America waved his hand, nearly hitting the wall and carded his fingers through his hair. Russia was still standing silently, watching America with a stern expression. His shoulders were rigid and America rubbed at his face as the geyser of words spewed out.

“And then I got scared, because you wouldn’t tell me anything, and I wouldn’t have known about anything unless I had bumped into Lithuania that day. And–“

“America, what are you getting at?” Russia shuffled the coat in his grasp, brows furrowed together in confusion.

“I was in your dreams.”

Russia paused, tilting his head and began, “If that is some kind of pickup line, I do not understand.”

Face turning red, America looked down to the ground again. “No. I mean literally, Ivan.”

Seconds ticked by, and then there was a low rumble from Russia as he growled, “What?”

“I mean, like.” America made a frustrated noise, taking his glasses off and looking at the blurry gray and blue world. “With England.” He put his glasses back on and looked back at his boyfriend. “Like, you know, magic.”

Muttering in Russian, the older man furrowed his hand through his hair, and instantly America could feel the guilt pooling into his stomach. “I still don’t understand what you mean, America.” His voice was thicker with his accent, emotion and confusion digging it up. 

“Christ, Russia. I couldn’t keep seeing you in pain every night from these dreams, so I found a way to fight them. I couldn’t stop them from out here, so I went in and fought them.”

It was like a sawing a string and listening to it snap as he saw the lightning strike of realization fill the other man’s face. Confusion made way to surprise, which sparked into revulsion and, as America took a step back, blistering hot anger.

“You did what?” Ivan’s voice was like the rumble of thunder, a belated warning of the lightning strike of anger and America felt a jolt of surprise screeching down his spine.

“I was just helping you, and that attack wasn’t even from a dream.” Blue eyes watched as Russia pressed his head into his palm, staring at the floor for a minute and then snapping his attention back to America.

“Is that what the book was for!” he snapped.

“…Yeah.”

Russia turned to the door, looking as though he were about to punch the metal and whirled back around to face America. The younger man stifled a flinch at seeing how tense and furious the other man was.

“Do you realize just how crazy this is?”

“I was just trying to help you,” America shot back, feeling his hackles start to rise from being yelled at. When Russia stared at him, as though not understanding his words, America added, “I thought you were in trouble, Russia. I thought you were sick or something!”

“So you messed with my mind?”

“You wouldn’t talk to me!”

“ _YOU WENT INTO MY HEAD, ALFRED,_ ” Russia roared and America leaned back slightly. The taller man was pinching at the bridge of his nose, breathing heavily though flared nostrils and he clenched his eyes shut. It didn’t pass America how he was holding his arm, as though in pain from not striking out. “What did you see?” Russia finally grit out quietly, not opening his eyes. The wind moaned outside and America watched as Russia’s pale blond hair rustled from the draft.

America wanted to lie, but he didn’t. “Mongolian Empire, World War I, Anastasia, the copper riots, me dying, Cuban missile crisis, Ukrainian famine…” he trailed off as he watched Russia tense, grunting at the mention of the Ukrainian famine and muttering harshly in Russian. His face contorted, looking just for a brief second as if he were about to cry and America placed his hand on his lover’s shoulder.

The hand was wrenched away violently and Russia hissed, “Do not touch me.” America took a step back in surprise and hard violet eyes assessed him coldly. “Do you even care?” Russia said to himself, not expecting America to answer.

It felt like someone had clawed into his chest and ground his heart with nails. “Of course I do.” He watched Russia from two steps away, and yet it felt like the other man was all the way back in Moscow.

“Then why,” Russia said coldly, “Would you ever betray my trust like that?” He straightened and turned around before America could answer, most likely not wanting to hear one. He jammed his coat on, throwing open the door and stepping out of the house while gritting out, “Do not follow me Alfred.” The door slammed closed and America could feel the floor vibrate from the force. He stared the door, mind whirling with what had just happened and clenched his hand tightly. It took a lot to step away from the door, to not just go running into the newborn night and tackle Russia. It would be worse if he did. It would just fuck everything up more than it was already.

Hand still clenched, America stormed into the kitchen, taking a heavy metal ladle and clenching his fingers hard around it. His finger marks were left behind as if he had been playing with putty and he tossed the mangled metal into the trash.

Shit. He had never really thought of it as ‘an invasion of privacy’, even though deep down there was that muted whisper that warned how angry Russia would be if he found out. But every thought was ‘help Russia’ and ‘Stop the nightmares’ no matter the cost.

He had just never factored in that maybe that cost might include his relationship.

America sat in the kitchen and waited for Russia to come back. It was cold and dark out. The yellow light of the kitchen illuminated vaguely the trees in the backyard. He sat on the blue stool near the counter, rolling his glass on the tile and burrowing his head in his hands as fear and self-revulsion clogged his throat. He stared at his reflection in the blackened windowpane and quickly glanced back to the door to see if Russia would be back. Two hours of the cycle passed and America tried to call him, to make sure everything was all right and that he was okay. When he didn’t pick up on the third try, America started to pace back and forth in the kitchen. He stopped and sat down on the stool when another hour passed.

It was finally 3 hours and 47 minutes later when Russia came back. America held his head in his hands staring at his shadow over the white tile as heavy footfalls rang in his ears.

“I changed my flight. My plane leaves tomorrow at 11. I called a cab to the airport.”

“I’ll drive you.” America lifted his head, feeling his hurt heart throb and push the shards of glass through his veins.

“Nyet.” Russia said, and walked to the living room.

America watched his back, and looked back to the counter. He could tell talk was not welcomed and any try to persuade him to stay would only be met with vicious anger. The fury was still there, bubbling under his skin. “Then take the bed at least.” When America was met with silence, he tried again, “Russia…”

“Enough America. Goodnight.” The goodnight was gritted out and hesitant, and the house relapsed into silence once more.

The younger man stared into the darkened room, listening to Russia move around and to his breathing. He finally slipped off the stool, said goodnight and wandered upstairs.

He didn’t bother to change out of his clothes as he lay on the bed, gouging his fingers into his skin and staring at the ceiling. Fuck. He had to think of something to say tomorrow morning to pacify him. Explain everything entirely. America had to fix it, because the idea of them remaining broken like this, with the fissure of anger between them made him ill. His head spun, making him nauseous and his hands trembled lightly. America curled up on his side, shoving his glasses on the nightstand and squashed the pillow in his hands until he drifted off to sleep.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

America opened his eyes and shut them with a soft sigh. _I don’t want to do this again_ , he thought and opened his eyes again. He stood in the corridor of doors. The air was heavy with smoke, and he realized in alarm that all the doors were charred as though a wild fire had ravished everything. All the doors were black with soot, he realized as he touched the nearest door and brushed the dust away. The space around him seemed to thrum, pulsating with invisible ripples. It was like the room was trying to rip itself apart.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck, and America turned around. Nothing was there. America sighed again and put his palm flat on a door, staring at the charred wood intensely. The arid smoke clotted the back of his throat and America tried to scrape his tongue against his teeth to scrub the oily taste away. Russia didn’t want him here. Here, standing in his mind and crassly peering at blackened memories that had caused countless sleepless nights. He had thought once or twice in passing that Russia would be mad with him with seeing all these things, and yet the venom in his voice had been inconceivable. It had just never occurred to America. The sudden rift between them tilted his world upside down and sent him sprawling. It felt like someone was grinding their shoe into his chest as he thought about Russia’s anger. It was possible his anger was like lighting alcohol– quick to burn brightly, but fading just as fast– and they would be fine after time and some awkward conversations.

But there also stood the chance that Russia was really angered, that this whole affair had left a scarring mark on their relationship. America bent his head down, looking at his dirtied hands. Blue eyes drifted away from his fingers splayed on the broad door and he took a step back while wiping his hand off on his jeans. His sad chuckle split the silence of the corridor. He had been prepared to die, in an abstract way, if all of this had come to it. He just had never factored in that it could have been the death of their relationship instead.

America sized up the menacing door in front of him. The facts were that although Russia was more that furious at him for the moment, there were still nightmares plaguing the man he loved. These nightmares hurt and they caused tears. America couldn’t just ignore that. He couldn’t just let the nightmares go on like that. Still, reluctance sat heavily in his stomach, stagnating him. America came to a decision, clenched his jaw, and opened the door.

Blinking against the humid wall of air, America walked through the black door and stared out at the grassy hills and bright blue sky. A soft wind sent silver ripples along the hill as the tall grass waved to the sea behind him. America looked up at the sky, a bright summer blue that was hazy with heat and clear of any clouds. A squat white building sat on top of the grassy hill, surrounded by thick blocks of stone. America took a deep breath of the sea air. The salt air tickled his nose and he turned around, looking at the expanse of the sea and the man made stone edge a few yards away. It kind of looks like Maine, America thought to himself and brought his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare of the summer sun. Out in the distance bobbed small buoys, bouncing with the quiet roll of the waves. The sun against the sea was nearly blinding and America turned back to the squat white building while rubbing at his neck. It looked like a Revolutionary War fort. Walking up the grassy knoll, America looked around for signs of any danger. Despite the warmth of the sun and the serene feeling the ocean gave, it was a black door. He had to be careful. America reached the top of the hill and glanced around for any people. Still nothing to worry about.

He finally saw a small stand with a plaque and walked over, stumbling once over a loose rock, before glancing down at the information. Fort McClary in Kittery, Maine. Well, at least he knew where he was now. Now walking in the shadow of the building and towards the steps to the entrance, America tried to figure out when the hell Russia had been there. America wasn’t even sure he remembered it. He had only been there once and that had been during 1812.

The inside was stifling with wet summer heat. America glanced through the gaps of the fort, looking out at the calm ocean. A cannon pointed outwards to the sea and America put a hand on the cold black metal, biting at his tongue as he continued to look around the abandoned fort. A whisper of a word caught his attention, nearly missed by the summer wind that stirred through the round dim building. There was no electricity in the old fort. America made his way forward through the circular hall, and caught a sight of Russia looking out at the blue sea.

There was a hand on his shoulder. America stopped, unable to see who was standing with Russia due to the curve of the hallway. God, he hoped it wasn’t his own image. There was a twisting in his ribcage that caught his breath as he thought about how in previous dreams America’s image had been his enemy and brought pain. He pressed a bare hand against the whitewashed walls, feeling the grit of stone under his fingers. Another thought crossed his mind, and like a crash of a wave on a beach, spread dread inside him. They’d had a fight. What if Russia was so mad at him that Russia had dreamed of someone else at his side? Someone who wasn’t as inept at relationships as America apparently was? The younger man rubbed at the back of his head and looked to the wooden floorboards.

A hand covered his mouth and pulled America backwards with a nearly neck breaking jolt. America clawed his fingers against the wall, trying to stop from falling down into the ammunition room below, which was a marked with narrow and crooked stairs. He scrambled to pull away from the hand that was ripping him backwards. His foot hit whoever was behind him and bone crushing fingers curled around his shoulders, picking America off the creaking floorboards and threw him. His shoulder met the set of stairs below him suddenly and he tumbled down to the grimy stone floor at the bottom. He landed on his face, dizzily wondering how he hadn’t broken his jaw and scrambled to turn over as he heard steps behind him. America’s head throbbed with the movement and his hands were roughly pinned over his head against the ground. Blue eyes widened behind skewed glasses as he stared at his attacker.

The man was nothing but shadows twisting and curling through the air like dense smoke. A glimmer of a face would shine, and then the face would disappear, becoming a blank slate. Black flames ate at where skin should have been on his hands, slinking up like gloves. A garbled voice spoke, “Stabbing you should have stopped you.” There was a pause and America strained under the weight on his chest and the hands against his wrists. It was too dark in the cellar of the fort to see anything beyond the smoky outline of his attacker’s head. “It was a hint that you were not wanted.”

“Some hint,” America wheezed.

The weight on his chest was making it hard to breath and despite the fact that he was trying to throw all of his strength in removing the person atop. His strength was being matched evenly. America twisted enough to rip his hand away from the man’s grasp and crash his open hand into his assailant’s cheekbone. The closed fist of the man crashed into his face, shoving his head down to the stone ground with a crack and America gasped in pain as bright lights exploded in front of his eyes. The man’s hand kept pressing America’s head against the stone. Blindly, America tried to claw at the other’s face to get away.

“You are dangerous.” The smoke said. The shape rippled, solidifying and morphing. “You will be stopped.”

“I’m not dangerous to Ivan,” America snarled. This must be the sentry or whatever England had warned him of. He finally swung his fist into the other’s elbow, and the man pulled away with a hiss. It was enough time for America to shove the man off and roll to the side, coughing as he tried to regain his breath and stop his head from throbbing.

The smoke man was crouched on the floor, face pitched in anger. He looked up at America and opened his mouth, “Please don’t hurt me!”

America froze, knowing the voice. Russia from long ago. A child. “I’m not hurting Ivan,” America whispered.

The smoke man crawled forward, “How could you do this?” Again in Russia’s voice. Older now. Rougher. America moved back, watching the smoke creature with wide eyes. “YOU WENT INTO MY HEAD, ALFRED,” the creature screamed and lurched forward to attack. Alfred dodged out of the way, pressing his back against the wall as nausea from the sudden movement made him want to double over. Spots of black dripped over his vision, but he kept his eyes open on the creature.

So it was cherry picking moments of negative memories from Russia? Alfred gazed at the smoky figure. It pulled back into the opposite corner of the dark room. “It was fine, before,” it said in its garbled voice. Alfred closed his eyes as his vision swam. “Look at what you have done.”

America pulled his hand away, staring at the new scene in front of him. The sky was red over a copper desert. Huge black fissures cracked the land apart where gusts of warm air blew. Although there was no one in the land, America could hear whispers of people talking over each other. A cacophony of thoughts murmuring over each other like the buzz of insects.

“A mind breaking further,” the creature growled in its garbled voice. Alfred turned and stared at its blank face and watched a mouth appear as he heard harshly in Russia’s voice, “Why do you even care?”

America could remember Russia whispering that to him. Back long ago when they had still been at each other’s throats and he had noticed Russia hadn’t been himself. He had followed him out of the hotel they were staying at for a conference, and watched. He’d finally found the other man alone in a park at night. Russia had muttered it when he had asked him if he was okay.

“Ivan isn’t broken,” America growled. His head continued to throb with pain. The shadow creature cocked its head to the side and America watched as the fire spread from it’s hands, curling up over and eating away at the tendrils of smoke. He backed away as a new face lay in the wake of fire. He stared at familiar blue.

“He is broken,” America heard his voice laugh at him. He stared at the creature and the sudden white-hot fury to smash his own face off rang through his muscles.

His image glanced at him from the corner of his eye, turning away and stuffing its hands in the pocket of the bomber jacket America was known to wear. America glanced to the off-white 50 proudly displayed and looked out to the copper desert the creature was motioning to. “There’s comfort in chaos, isn’t there?” The image said mildly.

“No.” America rubbed at the back of his head, and hissed quietly as his fingers met a tacky mess of blood and hair.

“Ivan thinks so. And I’m Ivan.” It smiled at nothing, the expression looking murderous in the red light of the sky. America remained silent when his image looked back at him. “Then you had to come in here and start fucking things up. Trying to bridge the fissures.”

“And how is that bad?” America snapped.

“I have always been here and I always will be,” the creature said with America’s own blinding grin, “and then he found out about you and this world has caught fire. I will not allow more. You must be stopped.” Cold blue eyes stared at him unblinkingly, before it tilted his head to the side and gave a single quiet chuckle in a way that was so Russia that it made America hold his breath. “You’ve known darkness for so long it becomes a part of who you are. There may have been glimmers of light along the way, but you don’t trust it. When they’re gone it hurts more than if they never came at all.” The image turned around and there was enough anger etched in his face and posture that America took a step back. “And you are a fucking ball of sunlight. And now everything will burn.”

“So what, you want me to leave Ivan? Because that’s not happening! If he wants me to leave, fine, but I’m not abandoning him because some fear monster told me to!” America gritted his teeth and added, “You’re a sum of his fears, that’s why you keep using his voice from bad memories– I know, I’ve seen them.”

America stilled and stared at the creature, “Wait, why the fuck did you try and kill me if you’re his fears?”

“I am not the sum of his fears. I am the guard. I will stop those who give pain to the consciousness.”

The earth groaned below America’s feet and he stumbled back as a chasm slowly began to split the earth. The image lunged at him and the two of them fell to the copper colored sand, rolling as each of them tried to gain the upper hand. America grabbed a handful of sand from the ground as the creature enclosed its hands around America’s throat and threw the sand into the other’s eyes. America kicked out, sending it close to the chasm and quickly scrambled to get up. The creature got up swiftly, going for America’s head with a quick swing. He ducked, but America quickly found that his head was still sore from being smacked into the stone of the fort and staggered as his vision swam again. He had to have a concussion. Probably a pretty bad one judging how just turning his head was nauseating.

“He fears you most, you know,” the creature growled, circling America slowly. America said nothing, swallowing against the icy fear that made his heart stutter. Instead, he watched the creature carefully as he tried to move as little as possible. The bastard kept going for his head, like it was trying to knock him out or something.

“He doesn’t fear me,” America muttered.

“Oh, he does.” The creature stopped moving and slipped its fingers through blond hair. It walked to America, grinning as the nation tensed in defense. They were close to the chasm now, and the whispers were louder here. They were almost frenzied in how rapidly they talked. None of them connected or made sense and it made America’s head throb harshly. “Let us ask him.”

His image bulldozed into America’s chest, sending them both into the chasm as America let out a cry at the weightlessness. Air rushed past his ears and the darkness seemed to give way to a blinding light. The voices got louder, nearly deafening, and America gritted his teeth as the creature, he was really starting to wonder if it was really a nightmare, reached out for him. The image grabbed at his shirt and they continued to spiral downwards. It swiped at his face and America felt him claw near his left eye, drawing blood.

It grimaced as America punched it harshly in the stomach and it let go. The real America twisted to look down at what exactly they were falling towards and swore, arms automatically reaching out for something to grab onto as he saw the ground quickly getting closer. His fingers of course met nothing but the cool air as they fell. “Shit, no!” he yelled, covering his face with his arms as he realized he was about to meet the solid ground at a deadly speed. The creature laughed gaily.

It hurt. He bit through his lip as he crashed against the ground. He had hit the ground at a good speed, and fast enough to hurt, but it was nothing like he was expecting. America should have been dead from that impact, a broken doll of mangled ribs and scrambled organs. Instead, his mouth tasted like copper shavings, but he was still very much alive. America rose to his hands and knees, staring at the ground as his arms shook lightly and his stomach churned.

From under the shadows of his arms, America watched the smoke creature again from behind his glasses. The garbled voice said, “Be still. It will be over soon.” and suddenly dissolved into the thick shadows that encapsulated the room America was now in.

He turned his gaze back to the floor, his glasses nearly slipping off his nose and clattering to the ground. He didn’t trust himself to stand up at the moment. America listened to his breath, the only sound in the silent room. He shook his head at listening to the sharp and ragged pants. The damn creature or guard or nightmare had taken a lot out of him. His elbow buckled with the weight of supporting his body and America toppled to the side. Looking up to a black sky, he continued to pant quietly, swallowing quickly every so often in a lame attempt to slow his breathing down.

America wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but by the time he realized that someone was standing behind him his breathing had lengthened into the deep mellow pattern of sleep and he felt as if someone had stuffed his brain and mouth with cotton. America’s blue eyes shot open as he heard the crack of metal against the cold stone floor. It was a hollow sound, one that America knew fairly well and groaned into his fingers.

He rolled onto his back, looking up at Russia curiously. He was in his old tan coat, one Russia had left in an old box in his basement more than twenty years ago, looking as formidable as great propaganda could only hope to project. There wasn’t a single shred of recognition there in those violet eyes that America knew so well. Not even the dullest glimmer of gentle joy that always seemed to be lurking there, even when he was so mad he was screaming at him in Russian and afterwards wouldn’t acknowledge him for a week. That had been a bit of a common occurrence in the birth of their relationship.

There was nothing there in his eyes or posture that said Russia was looking down at anything but a pure enemy and America froze. He held his breath and stilled, like a rabbit realizing it was about to be ripped apart by a starving wolf. “Have you come to mock me?” Russia asked softly.

“What?” America asked, sitting up slowly.

Russia looked up to the black sky above them, eyes fixating on something in the darkness. “Alfred told me that he entered my dreams. That he was in my mind, seeing things he should not have.” Russia looked back down on America and the younger nation twitched under his harsh gaze like a dying spider.

“He thinks its fun to watch you panic over him. To watch your emotions dance,” came the salacious whisper from behind Russia. America stared over the older man’s shoulder, watching as the shadows warped in the shape of a person. The shadows leaned into Russia, one hand running down his pale blond hair and whispering softly, “He’s still your enemy you know, secretly watching. Recording your weaknesses. It’s laughable how easy it is to your heart.” The smoke creature was back.

“Would you shut the fuck up? None of that’s true.” He struggled for a moment, then finally got to his knees and stood up. His knees wobbled like that of a newborn foal. America realized what it was doing. It was twisting all of the fragments of Russia’s fears, all the shards that were never voiced, and turning them into something that seemed real. Goddamn nightmares. Because that’s what it had to be. No creature or guard or anything put in charge of protecting Ivan would say things like this. There was no way someone who loved him would fuel his fears and paranoia. America knew exactly what the nightmare was doing.

“Who says ‘I love you’ so easily, anyway? It took you four years. He said in two weeks.” The shadowed nightmare looked akin to America once again and he leaned over Russia’s shoulder while grinning lazily at America. America wanted to punch the bastard right between the fucking eyes and hoped his glasses shattered and blinded him.

He had said ‘I love you’ in only two weeks of their relationship. It had just come out, just like most of the projectile vomit of words that came out everyday. But he had felt warm saying it and hadn’t done anything to retract his words. Russia and he had been sitting in his car, waiting for the heat to kick in before they headed to a show. Some obnoxious song had been playing on the radio and Russia had been laughing unabashedly at an incredibly lewd joke America had cracked. Russia had looked so startled and the car ride had been so awkwardly silent after that, but America hadn’t said anything else to the contrary.

And so what if it took Russia four years to say it in return? Humming ‘I love you’ after a kiss to America’s forehead when the younger nation had planted sunflower seeds in his garden in DC. America ground his teeth. The anger brought strength and he flexed his hand.

“He’ll leave you once he tires of you. You’re a fossil in this age. He sure is friendly with China and India and Brazil these days. What can you offer? Better to crush him now; get rid of him before he gets rid of you.” Russia’s lips curled at that statement and America growled under his breath.

“You are one of the biggest assholes I have ever met,” America snapped.

Russia’s violet gaze turned to him and the nightmare whispered, “If you want peace, you have to get rid of him. He has too much power over you. One little call and you’ll be crawling to him.”

Well that was the fucking funniest thing he’d ever heard. “As if, ” America snorted, but the disbelief went unheard.

“You have to remove your fear of him.” Inky fingers threaded through Russia’s hair, a mockery of comfort, and America glared at the smoky mass. “What if he betrays your trust again? Let me end it.”

The way Russia’s eyes seemed to suddenly click out of the haze of anger and to crystalline fear made the hair at the back of his neck rise. The taste of blood seemed too poignant suddenly and he wiped away a bead of sweat and blood from the corner of his eye.

The nightmare was under America’s nose suddenly and America jolted in surprise. The ink colored man was shifting, as if whatever gave him mass was boiling under his skin and slowly changed from America’s image to that of Russia. The inky image was no longer the color of the shadows, but Russia’s exact image. It grinned and America stared dumbly at the pipe in its hand. “I will show you his greatest fear,” said the image. America’s face flared with pain as he staggered to the side, the crack of metal against bone was brilliantly loud in his mind. He spat a mixture of spit and blood to the ground, ignoring the ringing in his ears, and instead focused on the image of Russia grinning ruthlessly at him. He had only a second before the image came charging at him, swinging the heavy pipe with a vicious blow to his chest that forced America to the ground, lying prostrate on the cold floor.

“Alfred!” America looked up to see Russia looking at him in wild fear. He seemed rooted in place, twisting like invisible ropes bound his limbs, and America watched his throat bob as he swallowed. “ Do not let him touch you! Fight back!”

“Yeah, because I was planning on letting the asshole make me into a piñata.” He held his hand to his ribs, tightening his jaw at the needle like pain there. That shit was broken. He had nothing to fight with, save his strength, and America snarled as he let his fist come crashing into the image’s jaw. It stumbled back and America ruthlessly followed up with another heavy blow. Someone had once mentioned that his punches felt like sledgehammers. He certainly hoped so. America continued the onslaught of blows, gritting his teeth against the pain in his head and chest.

Just as America was about to land a final blow, one that would have knocked the other out and possibly have killed him, the image looked up with Russia’s violet eyes and he could no longer tell the difference between the image and the real Russia. It was enough to make him falter, and it was enough for the nightmare to take advantage and land a blow to his throat. America choked, sent to the ground by the force and lack of air. He rolled over, coughing roughly as his fingers curled up into a fist. The air stung his knuckles, the skin split from the punches and he looked away from the blood to the shadow poised over him.

“Your greatest fear,” The image said, looking over to Russia who was hissing furiously at his immobility and staring at America in horror. Alfred glanced up at the image who was holding the pipe in its hands loosely before cracking the metal over America’s back. He grunted, slipping to the floor a bit. There was a pause of silence and he glanced up to see Russia’s eyes full of dread. America looked to the floor as his vision swam. The image continued, “Is that you loose him.”

There really was no way to describe the way it felt when the pipe went through his chest, pinning America to the floor like a broken and battered butterfly. There had been an almost cartoonish squelch along with the thud and mind-numbing crack as the metal pipe had been shoved through bone. America knew the real Russia was saying something, but his scream of pain had erased any hope of hearing that. Blood pooled in his mouth, seeping from his lips and America coughed, watching the Rorschach like splatter of blood fall bellow.

He tried to stop himself from slipping to the floor and further impaling himself, but his as his vision faded to black, his fingers slipped in blood and he fell forward. Instead of crashing his head into pavement, America awoke with a strangled cry that ripped from his throat and found himself staring at the white ceiling of his bedroom.

The old bedroom was softly lit in blue from the light of the moon and America clutched at his upper abdomen where the blood continued to pour from. The light made his blood look black. Haggard breaths came from his open mouth, and America jolted in a seizure like fit of pain. It sparked across his nerves, fiery in pain as if his insides had been doused in napalm. He choked on the blood in his throat; arm shaking as he dully realized he needed help and he reached out. His breaths quickened, nearly hyperventilating as he fought for air and tried to reach for the phone on his nightstand. He couldn’t support his body. America’s strength was seemingly sapped and he tumbled from the bed, crashing to the floor with a loud thud and crash as the lamp on the nightstand toppled over and smashed to the wood floor.

His fingers probed for the phone, just out of his reach as he lay in agony against the nightstand. He could see his sheets, marked with a bloody stain of crimson. Despite everything, a half-pained sob of laughter came out. He’d really have to get rid of the mattress now, just like Ivan wanted.

The door crashed open, Ivan standing in the doorway for one second, his face contorting and paling before he lunged to America’s side, fingers clasping over the most obvious wound. He was jerking slightly with the inability to breath and the heaves that racked his body. America was never going to hear the end of this.

“Alfred, Don’t you dare,” Russia growled fiercely, taking the bedding and ripping it from the bed and balling it against America’s chest. He was keeping him elevated and America gasped raggedly for air. “You cannot. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare die!”

America tried fighting against the blackness at the edges of his vision, but he couldn’t. There was too much damage done. He raised one hand, touching Russia’s cheek before he felt his limbs grow numb and his arm collapsed against his body while leaving a bloody print on Russia’s face.

By the time his hand fell to the floor, America was dead.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Cold damp air swirled through the cracked kitchen window, slithering through the dark room and curled around Russia’s bare arms. He shivered at how the cold air licked his skin and lumbered silently to the hushed living room, grabbing a plaid blanket off the couch and pulled it loosely over his frame. Bitter smoke still curled towards the ceiling in the kitchen and Russia sighed, walking back into the other room to try and clear more of the smoke away. It wasn’t easy to cook when the mind was scattered: fractured and dangling like a shattered mirror. He had been heating up olive oil and onions in a pan and had forgotten them. They had turned to charcoal and the kitchen was still hazy from the smoky residue. Russia opened another window, ignoring the bitter clammy morning air that seeped further in through the house.

The morning was misted gray and fog blanketed the ground outside. He leaned against the counter, feeling the corner of the counter cut into his hand as he pressed against it. Ceramic scraped loudly as he pulled a half finished mug of tea towards himself and stared out at the silent land. There was always the fear when a nation died that he wouldn’t come back. His pale fingers were curled around a faded Mickey Mouse mug and the small cartoon smiled brightly up at him. Russia turned the grinning mouse away, looking to the blank backside of the cold mug as he swirled the dregs of his cold tea absentmindedly.

It was hard to kill a nation before it was their time, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Greece and England had both admitted they hadn’t realized it was Rome’s time before the elder nation had just disappeared. And it was ironic in some sad way, but their kind did not usually die on the battlefield. Their lasts moments never seemed to be in one last push for glory. It was quiet when it happened, away from everyone’s eyes, and usually prompted by a mundane accident like falling down the stairs. But there was something else that could happen to nations when they died. They could come back, but not as themselves. Like wiping a slate clean or rebooting a computer, sometimes nations came back as a completely new person.

It felt like frozen barbed wire had wrapped around his heart as Russia thought of the possibility that America could wake up and not know who he was. There were rumors that it had happened to Germany when he was younger and Peru claimed that Argentina had suffered from it as well. Russia sighed, pouring out the remnants of his tea before staring at the ceiling above him. Outside the window a bird chirped merrily, and Russia frowned. With a sigh, he fixed the scratchy plaid blanket around him before slowly walking upstairs and back to his vigilant post. Russia’s throat felt tight and scratchy.

\---

When America woke up, it was to the sound of a muted TV playing downstairs and the gritty sound of a car buzzing past the house. America sighed, taking in a quiet breath and turned his head into his pillow. God, he felt like shit. His fingers groped about for the nightstand beside his bed in search for his phone. He felt hollow, like someone had carved his rib cage apart to replace all his organs with hot simmering air. America moaned when his hand fell to the side of the bed with a loud thump after continuously hitting air instead of falling on the wooden nightstand by the side of his bed. What the hell had he done last night? It felt like having the flu, being hit by a truck, and bled out like a hanging piece of meat. It felt like…

America’s eyes snapped open to a blue room, staring at the ceiling as he placed the feeling to memory. It felt like dying. Damn it, he hated that feeling. America twisted, looking about the room in confusion before laying his palm across his bare chest as he thought in silence.

It looked like his guest room, the one that no one really used other than England or Canada on the odd occasional visit. There was a single window looking out at the deep blue night and America blinked at the stars. He turned slowly in the bed, listening to the house and the whisper of the bedding against his skin. The sheets were tugged at his chest and he looked down at the white canvas of bandage there. He fingered the gauze and medical tape and the dark butterflies of memory swooped around.

He had died, he was pretty sure about that. America lay back down, flopping his arms out and glaring at the ceiling as all the aches began to voice their presence. Damn dream had killed him. He’d managed to survive wars without being killed, and he got a pipe through his chest from a dream! America huffed and continued to glare at the ceiling. Below the muted TV turned off and the house sighed with a small stir of wind.

He ran his tongue against his teeth, grimacing at the coppery and dirt taste that coated his mouth. A creak came from the front of the room and America turned his gaze to the doorway, tilting his head with a crooked smile as he saw a blurry outline of Russia standing by the door. “Hey, Ivan” he croaked, and cleared his throat.

He heard more than saw Russia cross the dark room, and hummed when two arms curled around him carefully. Nose tucked against the older man’s shoulder, America breathed as deeply as he could before his breath hitched with the lingering pain in his chest. Neither said anything. America listened to Russia’s breathing and shut his eyes as his hand roamed comfortingly across the other’s back.

“I hate you so much right now,” Russia said softly.

“I figured.” America rested his chin on Russia’s shoulder and looked into the inky shadows of the room. His hair smelled like America’s shampoo, and America blew at the strands of hair tickling his nose. They fell into silence again; listening to each other’s steady breathing and the chirrups of crickets and rhythmic croaking of frogs outside. Russia’s broad palm floated over the gauze tape on America’s back and the younger nation turned his face into the other’s body. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” America said, his words muffled.

Russia’s thumb trailed down America’s spine. “It hurts,” he gritted out, “because I am so angry at you, and yet I cannot be.” Russia turned his head, looking down to America somberly. What little light seeped into the room made his eyes seem to glow.

Kissing his tense jaw, America scooted back slightly on the bed, making more room for Russia to sit comfortably on. He could feel the impending storm of a talk coming and he pulled the blankets of the bed up higher to stave off the cool night air. “Why am I in the guest room?” America asked.

“Your mattress was soaked in blood. As were your sheets and clothing and the floor.” America winced at the harsh tone Russia adopted and looked up at the older man, tensing at the anger alight in his eyes.

“Volume,” America muttered as his head began to thrum with the first signs of a headache.

Russia scowled, turning his head to the doorway before looking back at his boyfriend. “What happened?”

America turned his head away, looking at the dresser across from the bed. They fell into silence and America worked his jaw in thought, startling when Russia’s hands curled around his own. His cool hands pried America’s clenched hands open from their death grip around the cotton sheets.

“No more bleeding, please,” he said.

America’s stomach swooped like a falling leaf in guilt. “The dreams.” He paused, flexing his fingers. “I was back there and, well, I got attacked.” He didn’t want to add that he had been, in a way, attacked by Russia. “By a dream,” he tacked on and tapped his fingers against his leg.

“You were stabbed in the chest,” Russia said. When America looked back up at him, his eyes were grim and tight at the corners. His lips quirked downwards and he looked out the window. “I remember dreaming that.” His cheeks were flushed with anger and America drew back. “What the _fuck_ were you doing?”

America blinked. “Stopping your nightmares.”

“But why?”

_Why?_ “Because they were hurting you. And I couldn’t do anything else to help. And you wouldn’t talk to me about it, so I was trying to just stop them.” America’s head throbbed and he furrowed his hand through his hair. His chest hurt and every muscle hummed in pain. He needed to lie down after he was done talking to Russia.

“So you somehow invade my mind–“

“I didn’t mean it!”

Russia looked down at him coolly, his face blank despite how his fingers gripped at his pant leg fiercely. Russia shut his eyes, taking in a slow breath through his nose. “No, I don’t think you did. But I am still angry.”

“Yeah, okay.” America looked up to the ceiling. He hated seeing Russia angry when it was his own fault. He deserved the anger, though. The crickets chirped loudly from outside as another breeze pressed at the house.

“How?”

“Huh?”

“How did you do it? How could dreams have killed you?” His voice had bounced over ‘killed’ as though it hurt to say it. America took his hand and swept the pad of his thumb over the veins on top of his right hand.

“England helped a little. He said he could cast a curse and I said yeah, as long as it would help. Looks like I mucked that up though, huh?” He gave a small smile, but it died at seeing how pale Russia’s face had gone.

“A curse?” he hissed.

“What?”

Russia’s jaw worked and America tensed in preparedness for being yelled at. Instead of the angry yell though, Russia blew air tightly between his teeth and stared down at the younger nation. “You two are idiots.He is worse since he _knows_ what magic can do. You could have been more than killed. Worse. There are worse things than dying, Alfred”

America decided to say nothing beyond mumbling that England had warned him enough of what he was doing and how much of an idiot America himself was. Russia didn’t look happy though when America was finished explaining the spell and his reasons behind it.

“As I said, you could have died. Permanently.” He said nothing of how many Americans would have died and what chaos could have erupted. America knew there was something else bugging him. 

“Look, I just wanted to help you Ivan. You’re my boyfriend. It hurts to see you in such obvious pain.” America rubbed at his head before sweeping his hand across Russia’s shoulder and arm.

Russia stared out of the window and gritted out, “I didn’t need your help.” The sky was starting to lighten with the early gray light of morning.

“Look. I couldn’t just watch you suffer in silence!”

Russia turned and America took a small gasp of air as he pressed his hands around his face, violet eyes searching blue. “You don’t get it,” Russia’s voice rumbled. “I can put up with much. They are only dreams, Alfred. And no matter how terrible, how awful and hurtful they were, I would wake up and they were just dreams and you were there in my reality.” Russia’s thumb crested over his brow. “They were just dreams as long as every night I woke up and knew you were still there, still here for me. “

America brought his hand up, fingers running through the other man’s hair and pulling him down closer. “I’m sorry,” America muttered and smiled when Russia closed his eyes. “I fucked up. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Yes. You did.”

Kissing his lips softly, painfully slow, America pulled back and rested back against the bed. He was still brittle and exhausted from everything. Russia sat looking down at him, violet eyes calm. With a small tug, America pulled him down and looped his arms around Russia’s shoulders. “It’s too early to be up.” Russia grunted as an answer, pulling the sheets up around them as he slid inside the warm confines. America turned towards him, pressing their foreheads together and rubbing his thumb against Russia’s neck. “Time to sleep.”

“You have been sleeping for a week,” Russia murmured tartly.

With a hum, America tipped his head up and kissed Russia’s nose. It was cold from the chilly house. “Whatever,” he yawned. Russia’s hand pressed firmly against his back as though keeping him from fading or leaving and America hummed again. Sleep fluttered around him, tantalizingly close as his breathing mellow out and soft golden sunshine began to seep though the window and douse the far wall in the buttery light. The crickets had quieted long ago, replaced by the gentle warbles of a distant bird. The house sighed with another stirring of wind.

“Love you,” America whispered sleepily, eyes closed against the warm light. “And I’ll be here when you wake up.” He yawned, curling deeper into the bed.

A few lazy seconds trickled by and America could feel Russia’s hot breath ghost along his cheek. And though he was too far into the warm arms of gentle sleep to know what he had said, America could feel his heart swell in warmth and his mind quiet that only familiar safety could bring, and knew everything could be okay again.

End.


End file.
